The New Eastgate Swing E-Book

Chris Nickson

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 351

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Leeds, 1957: When enquiry agent Dan Markham and his new partner, retired Detective Sergeant Baker, take on a missing persons case, a simple matter turns into a murder investigation when a body is recovered from the River Aire. Nothing is what it seems. The dead man is an East German. A defector or spy? More mysterious deaths follow and the investigation takes a deadly turn as the pair try to track down a ruthless Russian assassin and Markham finds himself dragged into the heart of a Cold War – in Leeds.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR

DARK BRIGGATE BLUES:A DAN MARKHAM MYSTERY

BY CHRIS NICKSON

‘The book is a pacy, atmospheric and entertaining page-turner with a whole host of well-rounded characters’

Yorkshire Post

‘[Dark Briggate Blues is] written with an obvious affection for the private investigator genre, this is a skilful take in an unusual setting. It has real depth which will keep you turning the pages’

Hull Daily Mail

‘This is a tense thriller, all the more disturbing for the ordinariness of its setting among the smoky, rain-slicked streets of a northern industrial city. Nickson has captured the minutiae of the mid-20th century perfectly’

Historical Novel Society

To the woman whose name I never caught, who told me about her father, a real 1950s Leeds enquiry agent. That conversation was the first spark for this book.Thank you.

LEEDS, 1957

CONTENTS

Praise

Title

Dedication

Leeds, 1957

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

About the Author

Copyright

PROLOGUE

East Germany, March 1954

‘Killing you would be the easiest thing in the world.’ He sat behind the desk, smoking lazily and staring at the other man. ‘An industrial accident, maybe. A car crash. Or just a simple disappearance,’ he added with a hint of a smile. ‘After all, no one would be stupid enough to ask questions about you, would they?’

The ‘du’ for ‘you’, so familiar, a hard reminder of who held the power here. The other man kept his gaze on his lap and shook his head. The words weren’t meant to be answered. They were a threat, a little dance of victory. He’d been caught trying to escape from East Germany. Like everyone, he knew the price of capture.

He’d already been beaten in his cell by the time the Stasi officer arrived. Eyes so swollen they were almost closed, his nose broken, five or six teeth gone. Ribs cracked and bruises all over his body. He just hoped nothing was damaged inside. The men had enjoyed their work, making him hurt and yell out. He spat blood into the bucket on the floor and breathed through his mouth. He felt numb, beyond pain.

Failure. Death.

The uniformed men leapt to attention as soon as the officer appeared. He dismissed them, waiting and watching silently as the man slowly sat up. Each tiny movement was painful. He winced and tried to focus.

‘Come with me,’ the Stasi man ordered finally. There was no compassion in his tone, no feeling at all. ‘You look strong enough to walk.’ He led the way through a maze of corridors to this plain room, the injured man limping slowly behind, steadying himself with a hand on the concrete block walls. No window in here, just a table and two chairs.

‘Do you really think the West is paradise?’ the officer asked. He didn’t wait for a reply; he didn’t need one. ‘It’s not, although they’d be grateful enough for anyone with special skills. Especially someone from this side of that Iron Curtain they keep talking about. Someone like you.’ That du again. ‘Or perhaps you thought you were so unimportant that no one was watching you?’ He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his face close enough to smell the sourness of meat and garlic on his breath. ‘Here in the Democratic Republic everyone watches everyone. I’d really hoped you’d be less naïve. And not so stupid.’

The man stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, watching the smoke curl upwards.

‘You’re a very lucky man today. Very lucky indeed. I’m going to offer you a bargain, and it’s one you won’t turn down. You’re going to go to the West. You’re going to see what life is like there.’ The man jerked up his head in astonishment. Was this a joke? Was he going to promise the world and then shoot him?

The Stasi officer smiled. ‘I thought that would get your attention. Your paradise, just beyond that door.’ He inclined his head. ‘But you’re going to do something for us while you’re there. To show your thanks for our mercy. You’re going to give us information. Lots of it.’ A pause that lasted for a heartbeat. ‘You’re one of us now, Dieter.’

He laid it out in simple sentences. The freedom, the chances. Then the demands, and finally the threat.

‘You won’t betray us,’ he said quietly, matter-of-factly, counting it all out on stubby, manicured fingers. Not even a trace of nicotine stains. ‘You won’t run from us. After all, your parents, your sister, her husband and children are still here. If you’re ever tempted, just remember that their lives–’ he held out his right hand, palm up ‘–are in my hand.’ Slowly, calmly, he closed his fingers to make a fist. ‘Always remember that, Dieter.’

CHAPTER ONE

Leeds, November 1957

1957 had been a good year. Plenty of divorce business. The bloom had gone off too many marriages, it seemed; whole bouquets of them shedding their petals. It had kept him busy from January until the middle of October. Now, halfway through November, things were winding down. The petrol rationing that had been in force during the Suez Crisis was a memory. People were thinking ahead to 25 December. Families keeping the peace until Christmas was over. Holding a truce. And that was fine. It would pick up again in the New Year.

Dan Markham sat reading the morning paper, going through every article to tease out the time until dinner. For the last four days no one had come into the office needing his services, and for once the emptiness felt welcome. After so many hectic months he was ready to relax.

He lifted his head as he heard the clump of footsteps on the stairs. A familiar, heavy tread, the ominous, unmistakable sound of a copper. Markham waited as the door opened. Close, he thought when he saw the face; it was an ex-copper. Detective Sergeant Baker, just plain Mr Baker now. He’d retired from the force a year before. But he was dressed exactly the way he always had, an old mackintosh, belted and buttoned up, the trilby pushed down on his head, with a white shirt and striped tie. As portly as ever, maybe even rounder than before, a little more flesh to his jowls. He was carrying a large brown paper bag. Sighing, he settled on the empty chair.

‘This is a surprise,’ Markham said. They’d ended up working together on a case in 1954. Back then Baker made no secret of his contempt for enquiry agents. The man had been wounded by a bullet and never fully recovered. About the only useful thing to come from it was the uneasy truce the two of them had found. Not friends, but able to rub along together.

‘I thought I’d see if you were staying on the straight and narrow.’ Baker took off his hat and placed it on the edge of the desk.

‘I’m getting by. Enjoying your retirement?’

The man frowned.

‘My missus kept going on at me to retire as soon as I could, what with that injury from the shooting, so I had myself invalided out. Now she’s on at me to do something and not be under her feet all the time.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Women. Never bloody satisfied.’

‘You could find something.’ He knew Baker had a sharp mind. He was still young enough. And he was honest.

‘I daresay,’ he agreed. ‘It got me thinking, any road. You’re on your own here. People tell me you’re busy these days. You could use some help. I have plenty of experience.’

Markham smiled. It was the damndest job application he’d ever heard.

‘I make enough to support myself. There’s not enough to pay two people.’

‘Ah, you might be wrong there, lad.’ Baker stared squarely at him. ‘I’ve had a quiet word round the stations. They all know me. They’d pass stuff on. Missing persons, little things they don’t have the time to deal with properly. Think on. It could more than double your business. Get you out of this divorce lark, too.’ He said the words with distaste.

‘Are you sure?’ Markham said warily.

‘I am. I’d not be here otherwise.’

‘You always said enquiry agents were parasites,’ he reminded the man.

‘I did,’ Baker admitted and scratched the back of his neck.

‘So why do you want to be one?’

‘Someone has to keep you honest. It might as well be me.’ Baker leaned forward and put the paper bag on the blotter. ‘Open it.’

It was heavier than it seemed. Markham slid out a piece of polished brass and turned it over. Markham & Baker, Enquiry Agents in bold, solid script. He glanced at the man and raised his eyebrows. He had balls; had to give him that. He did have experience, years of it. Markham was only twenty-eight. And if he did bring in more business …

‘If we’re going to do it, it ought to look right,’ Baker said.

Markham began to laugh.

‘We can give it a try. Until the end of the year.’

‘Fair enough,’ Baker nodded.

‘And if it doesn’t work, go our separate ways.’

‘Can’t ask better than that.’ He extended his hand and they shook.

‘I don’t even know your Christian name,’ Markham said.

‘Stephen.’ He shot a warning glance. ‘Never Steve. You understand that? I know what you young ones are like. Shorten bloody everything.’

***

The next day Baker showed up on the dot of nine, breathing hard from carrying a coat rack. He placed it inside the door, hung up his battered trilby and old mackintosh, taking the Daily Express and a screwdriver from the pocket. Then he picked up the brass sign, polished it lightly with a handkerchief and vanished back down the stairs. When Markham went out at eleven it was fixed to the wall by the entry door, proud and shining.

‘I tell you what, lad, we’re going to need another desk in here,’ Baker said later in the day. The next morning he brought in a card table, ugly, scarred wood topped with tatty green baize, followed by another trip carrying a folding chair.

‘It’s just for the moment,’ he said as he set them up. Two days into the partnership and already the office seemed crowded, claustrophobic.

That afternoon they were sitting, listening as gusts of wind blew rain against the window, the drops spattering noisily.

‘I’ll get a proper desk soon,’ Baker promised. ‘So we look professional.’

‘God only knows where we’ll make room for it,’ Markham told him. ‘We’re already on top of each other.’

‘Get rid of some of those filing cabinets. I had a shufti. They’re mostly empty.’

‘If you like. And if you can find someone to haul a desk up here.’

Baker smiled and just rubbed the fingers of one hand together.

‘A little bit of that is all it’ll take. I’ll go looking later. We don’t have anything on, do we?’

‘No. I have to be in court at three, but that’s all.’ A few minutes of short simple testimony in a divorce case. Markham has discovered the man in a hotel bed with another woman. It had all been set up in advance, of course. A prostitute earning a few easy quid without even having to part her legs.

The telephone rang and he answered with the number, then listened for a moment.

‘They want to talk to you,’ he told Baker in surprise as he passed over the receiver. It was a short conversation. The man listened, asked a question or two, then finished by saying, ‘Why don’t you send her over? And thank you, George. I owe you a pint the next time I see you.’ He replaced the handset and rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, it looks like we have our first case, Dan. A missing person.’

***

The woman looked dowdy. That was the only word for it. A grey wool coat that reached to mid-calf, the fur collar ratty and worn. Brogues on her feet, the laces double-knotted, and small, sensible heels. Greying hair in a tight set under a small black hat. No colour at all about her.

She smelt of old powder and Parma violets, eyes blinking behind her glasses. There was no wedding ring. A spinster whose young man had never returned from the Great War, Markham suspected. One of a generation left on the shelf with not enough bachelors to go around. She certainly looked the right age for it.

‘How can we help you, Miss …?’

‘Harding,’ she replied. A careful, educated accent. ‘At the police station they told me you might be able to assist me.’ She looked from one of them to the other. ‘It’s my lodger. He hasn’t come home for three days now. That’s not like him.’

Markham gave Baker the smallest hint of a nod. Let him take over, he’d probably dealt with cases like this before.

‘What’s his name, miss?’

‘Dieter. Dieter de Vries.’

‘De Vries?’ Baker asked. ‘Foreign, is he?’

‘Dutch,’ she said. ‘He’s been with me for two years. Very reliable.’ She sniffed and pulled a small handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘If he’s going somewhere, he always lets me know.’ She raised her head. ‘That’s why I’m worried about him. But the police said that there’s not much they can do yet, and they suggested I talk to you.’

‘We can look into it,’ Baker told her soothingly. Markham sat back to watch. He’d never had a chance to see this side of the man before, the one that gently teased information from someone. And he did it well.

In less than five minutes he learned that de Vries had arrived in Leeds a little before Christmas 1955 from Holland. An engineer, he had a solid job with a company in Holbeck. Kept himself to himself, rarely went out in the evenings. Every few months he’d spend a weekend away, then a week each summer when he went back to Holland to see his family. Very quiet and respectful. Never played the wireless too loud and paid his rent on time every week. Miss Harding cooked his breakfast and tea and he took his dinner at work, she said.

‘How did he come to you?’ Baker asked when she’d finished. ‘Did someone recommend him?’

‘I had an advertisement at the newsagent’s,’ she replied primly. ‘But of course I asked for references.’

‘Do you remember who vouched for him?’

‘I do.’ She opened her handbag, brought out two pieces of paper and passed them across the card table. Baker read them quickly.

‘His employer and another Dutch gentleman, by the look of it?’

‘That’s correct. Normally I wouldn’t take the chance on someone foreign–’ she seemed to sniff again as she pronounced the word ‘–but he had everything in order.’

‘Do you have a photograph of him?’

‘No,’ she answered in surprise. ‘Why would I? He’s a lodger, not a friend.’

‘Could you describe him, please?’ Markham asked. A picture would have been much simpler.

‘I suppose so.’ Miss Harding closed her eyes for a moment. ‘He’s about five feet nine inches tall, and I’d say he probably weighs thirteen stone. His face is rather round, brown eyes with heavy bags under them.’ She rubbed her own face to illustrate what she meant. ‘Pale lips, quite full. And he’s bald. The only hair he has is on the sides and back of his head. There are some small scars on his face. He told me they were from the war.’

‘What would he have been wearing when he went missing?’ Baker had been taking notes.

‘A suit, white shirt, and tie, I suppose. Black shoes, well-polished. He was very careful of that, cleaned his shoes every evening.’

‘Have you taken a look in his room at all?’

The woman looked horrified.

‘Of course not. That’s his.’

‘It might help us to have a look in there,’ Baker said gently. ‘There might be some indication as to where he’s gone, or why.’ He smiled at her. ‘If you want us to look for him then we need to be able to do our job properly.’

‘I suppose so,’ she agreed after a little hesitation. ‘If you feel it’s necessary.’

‘It would be helpful. Why don’t you go home and I’ll come around a bit later and see what I can find.’

She nodded quickly, comforted by what he said. Baker was old enough for her to take seriously. He looked confident, as if he’d covered this ground before. And he probably had.

‘Is there something I need to do to employ you?’ she asked.

‘Just pay us a retaining fee,’ Markham told her with an easy smile.

She delved in her handbag and came out with two crisp five-pound notes.

‘I trust this is enough.’

‘Of course. More than enough.’ He wrote out a receipt. She read and folded it methodically before putting it away. She seemed to be the type of woman who kept a lifetime of paper.

‘We’ll need to know where you live, too,’ Baker said. Miss Harding gave her address, a respectable street in Headingley, and they heard her solid footsteps going down the stairs.

‘Well, lad, what do you make of that?’

Markham shrugged.

‘More your territory than mine.’

‘True enough,’ Baker agreed. ‘Odds are he’s met someone and gone off for a randy few days. That’s usually the way it goes. He’ll turn up when he’s had enough. But I’ll stop by on my way home and have a look-see. You never know.’

‘You’re probably right.’ He wasn’t giving it much thought, sorting through a folder, pulling out the items he’d need for the divorce hearing later.

‘I might take a wander over to Holbeck and have a word at that company he works for. They should be able to tell me something.’

‘If they’ll talk to you. Remember, you’re not on the force now.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ Baker told him. ‘They’ll talk to me.’

***

He was in and out of court in under half an hour. Called to the stand he said his piece, identified the photographs and the husband, then walked back to the office on Albion Place, cutting down Lands Lane by the afternoon bustle of Schofield’s department store. The air smelt fresher, less of the thick, endless smog that used to always choke autumn and winter. It looked as if the new Clean Air Act was doing some good.

When he opened the door, Baker was pacing around, his heavy face set, the pipe clamped in his jaw.

‘Something wrong?’ Markham asked.

‘You could say that.’ He stopped and tapped the bowl out into an ashtray. ‘I went down to Mortimer’s. You know, where de Vries works.’

‘Well?’

‘They looked at me like I was stark raving mad. No one called Dieter de Vries has ever been employed there.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘What?’ Markham said in disbelief. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

‘I wish I bloody well was.’

‘Then there has to be a mistake.’

‘I was in their personnel department. They should know who works there, and there’s not a trace of any Dieter de Vries. Not now, not in the past.’ He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets.

‘Maybe Miss Harding had the wrong place.’

‘Did she strike you as the type to make mistakes like that?’

No, he had to admit it. She was exact. Thorough, scrupulous.

‘We’d better go and take a look.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I can’t take too long, though. I’m meeting someone at six.’

‘One of your fancy women?’ Baker snorted.

‘The only one I have.’

He’d promised to take her out. Nothing special. Something to eat, then down to Studio 20, the jazz club in Leeds. There was a rumour that George Melly might be performing. The man was a bit too traditional for his taste, but he always put on a good, entertaining show. And Georgina was eager to go and perhaps pick up a few tips by watching a real professional at work.

He’d met her one empty Friday evening. Restless, unable to settle, he’d gone to a party. As soon as he arrived it felt like a bad idea. The house was full of people who were too bright, too loud, as if they could will themselves into having a good time.

He sat in the front room, letting the conversations and flirtations ebb and flow around him. A baby grand piano sat by the window. But the only music was skiffle and pop from a record player in the other room. Another ten minutes and he’d go, he decided.

When someone called out, ‘George. Come on, give us a song,’ he groaned inside and stood by the door to leave without a fuss. The woman who settled on the piano stool and lifted the lid looked uneasy, reluctant, taking a sip of gin and putting the glass down before running her hands over the keys. Then she closed her eyes for a moment and started to play.

At first he couldn’t pick out a tune, listening through the haze of voices. But the room quietened as she continued and he understood that she was lulling them, drawing in their attention. The melody began to take shape in the chords of the left hand as the right improvised like George Shearing, hinting and nudging here and there before finally settling so that faces began to smile as they recognised it. ‘A Foggy Day In London Town.’ The woman opened her mouth, her singing low and languorous, as if it was emerging from a distant dream.

She had something. Not a Billie or a Sarah. But there was a velvet sensuality in her tone, hinting at intimacy and soft memories. Then she let her hands take over again, pushing down on the sustain pedal to let chords hang and fade until it all drifted off into the distance.

The applause was polite. People returned to their talk. She took another drink, looking around and blinking, emerging from somewhere else. As she stood he walked over.

‘You’re very good,’ he told her. She didn’t blush, just looked him in the eye.

‘It’s what I do. At night, anyway.’

‘You play well, too. A lot of Shearing in there.’

That made her smile.

‘I’m Georgina Taylor.’ She extended a thin, pale arm.

‘Dan Markham,’ he said as they shook.

‘And I only sound like Shearing because I’m not good enough to be Monk or Tatum.’ She spoke the words like a challenge: did he know what he was talking about or was it all bluff?

‘No one else can ever sound like Thelonious,’ he answered. ‘And Tatum …’ He shook his head. ‘You’d need two more hands. Are you a professional?’

The woman looked embarrassed.

‘Trying,’ she admitted. ‘I do nightclubs when I can. It’s hard to get a gig. Working behind the counter at Boots pays the bills. For now, anyway,’ she added with determination.

He tried to imagine her in the nylon overall, selling medicines and make-up, but he couldn’t reconcile it with the woman he’d just heard performing.

‘How about you?’ she asked. ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m an enquiry agent,’ he said and her eyes widened.

***

The next night they met for a meal and wandered through town to Studio 20. As they walked she told him a little about herself, short sentences with long pauses. She’d grown up in Malton, married young, a couple of years after the war. The decree nisi had come through in July. Leeds had been a fresh start, a chance for her to do more with her music.

‘I’ve never been here before,’ she admitted as they went down the stairs to the club. ‘I don’t know anyone who really likes jazz.’

‘You do now.’

The place was packed, hardly room to stand among the young men and women. In the corner a quintet was playing. Three guitars, bass, and a ragged washboard offering rhythm. Skiffle. Markham glanced at Bob Barclay, the club’s owner, sitting in his booth. He gave an eloquent shrug.

‘The Vipers,’ he said. ‘They’re up from London, had a big hit. Brings in the money. You can see for yourself, Dan. I’ve never had the place so full. Still, it lets me put on other things. There’s not the market for jazz there was a few years back.’

Disappointed, they left. She tucked her arm through his.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hardly your fault.’ She tried to smile, but it was a weak effort. ‘It’s the same all over. Everyone wants pop music now.’

He saw her again on Wednesday and the following weekend. Soon she was spending some nights at his flat, or he’d stay over in her bedsit in Hyde Park. Six months later and they were still meeting up a couple of times a week. Going out, his mother would have said. Nothing too serious; more than friends but never likely to end up engaged.

Whenever she performed Markham would be there, sitting in the corner of a club with endless cups of coffee, applauding every song. She had talent, but Leeds wasn’t a place where it could ever have the chance to flower.

***

The house was a sturdy Edwardian villa with a postage-stamp front garden and lace curtains on the windows, no more than a stone’s throw from the Cottage Road cinema.

‘Just what you’d expect,’ Baker said as he eased himself out of the Ford Anglia. The rain had started again, a half-hearted, chilly shower. Markham patted the hat down on his head as they approached the door.

At home, Miss Harding seemed more sure of herself, ushering them into a dusty front room before offering tea, perching herself on the edge of an easy chair that had been in fashion half a century before. A faded picture of a young soldier stood in a silver frame on the mantelpiece.

Baker went over the details again, confirming where de Vries worked.

‘Do you know what kind of position he held?’

‘An engineer of some kind. That’s what he told me. He tried to explain it once, but it didn’t make much sense. It was a technical job, I know that.’

Baker made another note, then said, ‘Right, we’d better take a look at his room.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ She made a face as if a bad smell had wafted through the room.

‘If you want us to find him, luv,’ he said easily and she nodded agreement after a long pause. ‘You’re hiring us for what we can do, but we need all the background we can find.’

Miss Harding marched over to the polished oak sideboard and removed a key from the top drawer.

‘The second door on the right upstairs. I’d be grateful if you didn’t make a mess.’

***

It was nondescript. A cast-iron bedstead, the sheets and blankets tucked in place with tight hospital corners. Bright rag rugs on the floorboards. A dressing table and a wardrobe with ornate carved legs. An easy chair sat by the light of the window, a small table next to it. A filled, waist-high bookcase. Baker stood just inside the doorway for a little while, looking around slowly.

‘Something’s wrong here,’ he said finally.

‘It seems ordinary enough.’

‘Too ordinary, that’s the thing. Do you smell something?’

Markham sniffed.

‘Brylcreem?’ He thought quickly. ‘Didn’t she say he was bald?’

‘Easy enough to check. Take a dekko in the bathroom.’

It was the closed door at the end of the hall. One shelf held a man’s toiletries – safety razor, shaving brush, a half-empty tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. Fixative for false teeth.

‘No Brylcreem,’ he reported when he returned.

‘I reckon someone’s been in here having a look around when the landlady wasn’t at home.’

‘Too neat?’

‘Too exact. And don’t tell me your place is tidy. I’ve seen that tip you call home.’

He’d searched the flat once, three years before, when Markham had been a murder suspect and Baker the detective investigating the crime.

‘Nothing to find, you think?’

The older man shook his head.

‘I doubt it. Not if a professional’s been over the place. Still, we’ll have a look.’

He was right. Half an hour of going through everything turned up no photographs of the man. Nothing to indicate he might not be who he claimed. No passport or driving licence. A couple of suits hung in the wardrobe, along with some shirts, ties, a sports jacket and slacks. Thirty-eight-inch chest, probably about five feet six tall, size nine shoes. The books were paperbacks, all in English. Standard fiction fare, everything from Ian Fleming to Graham Greene. He flipped through each one quickly; nothing hidden inside.

It wasn’t much.

‘Are you going to tell her?’ Markham asked quietly.

‘Tell her what, lad?’

‘About where he was supposed to have worked.’

‘Not yet.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Never show your hand too early. Always a good rule, especially when there’s something fishy going on.’

Baker returned the key to Miss Harding. She stood by the front door like a mother hen guarding her brood.

‘Did you find anything?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Baker told her. ‘Has anyone been in there since he left?’

‘Of course not,’ she answered. ‘Mr de Vries always does his own cleaning, every Sunday. I have no reason to enter his private room.’

‘Can you remind me what he was wearing the last time you saw him?’ The question seemed casual but he was listening intently.

‘His overcoat. I remember that, because it was cold out. And a hat; he always wore a hat.’

‘What colour was the coat?’

‘Navy blue,’ Miss Harding said, as if no decent coat would be any other shade.

‘Thank you.’ Baker stroked his chin. ‘We’ll have a report for you in a day or so. If he gets in touch …’

‘I’ll let you know immediately. Of course. What do you think’s happened to him?’

‘Early days yet.’ He gave her a reassuring smile and patted her hand. ‘Don’t you worry.’

They stood by the Anglia. Baker brought out a pouch and filled his pipe, lighting it with a match and puffing until he was satisfied.

‘So we have three questions about him now,’ Markham said. ‘Where he’s gone, why someone would search his room, and where the hell he works.’

‘Four,’ Baker corrected him. ‘Who is he really?’

‘We should give it back to the police.’

‘What for? He might not be who he claims to be to his landlady, but that’s not an offence. He hasn’t tried to profit from it that we know of. Don’t you want to know what’s going on?’

‘Not really.’ The last time he’d got involved in dirty business, two fingers on his left hand had been broken. Twice. He still couldn’t use them, and probably never would. They were like claws, bent, a reminder to carry for the rest of his life.

‘I’m curious, any road. This is the best fun I’ve had since I left the force. And we don’t have anything better to do, do we?’

‘I suppose not,’ Markham agreed reluctantly. ‘But the first sign of it becoming dangerous and we stop.’ The man who’d crippled his fingers had also shot Baker.

‘Right enough.’ He checked his watch. ‘You’d better get a move on. Won’t do to keep her waiting.’

‘Do you want a lift home?’

‘No thanks, lad. It’ll do me good to stretch my legs.’ He knew what that meant – stopping at the Skyrack for a pint before making his way back to Burley. ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning. Maybe a good night’s sleep will bring some ideas.’

***

She was waiting under the Ball-Dyson clock on Lower Briggate, clutching her handbag in front of her. Georgina had changed clothes at work, wearing a knitted top and a slim skirt with seamed stockings and patent high heels, a heavy wool coat over her shoulders.

‘Busy day?’ he asked as he kissed her on the cheek.

‘So-so.’ There was never much to say about shop work, unless she had a particularly amusing or awful customer. ‘How about you? Things fine with Mr Baker?’ She gave an impish grin that reached all the way to her eyes.

‘It’s getting interesting,’ he told her. ‘Let’s put it like that.’

‘Good interesting or bad?’

‘I’m not sure yet,’ he said after a moment. Tomorrow would tell. ‘Where do you fancy eating?’

They settled on Jacomelli’s. It was close and always reliable. A chilly wind blew from the river as they strolled up Briggate after the meal. Georgina slipped her arm through his. It was comfortable, companionable. Loving.

The notice on the door of Studio 20 announced that Melly had cancelled due to illness. It was disappointing, but hardly the end of the world.

‘Do you want to go in anyway?’ he asked.

‘Not really,’ she decided, looking up at him. ‘Do you mind if we just go home?’

He set the choke before the started the Anglia. The motor caught after a second, wheezed, then fired. It was growing old. Maybe the time had come to replace it. A Ford Popular, maybe; he didn’t need something that would break the sound barrier. Just a car that would stop and go when he wanted and not cost him a fortune.

‘Whose home?’ he asked.

‘Yours?’ She kicked off the shoes and waggled her toes. ‘God, that’s better. They’ve been killing me all day.’

There was hardly any traffic on Harrogate Road. The November night was too cold to tempt many people out. A few places showed Christmas decorations in the windows, one tree neatly lit up. He didn’t want to think about it. When he was young Christmas had been fun, waking early to check the pillowcase at the end of his bed for presents. But the war had changed all that. The magic vanished. There were more important things than gifts on one day of the year. And there’d been precious little joy for years afterwards, just the bleakness of rationing for so long. Grey lives.

He pulled in behind the house and led the way up the stairs. Inside, the flat was cold. He switched on both bars of the electric fire to heat the place. Georgina began to leaf through his records, still wearing her coat.

‘Who was that man you played me the other week?’ she asked.

He tried to recall who she meant. It seemed as if half his spare money went on the records he ordered from Dobell’s in London. It was the only place in England that stocked American jazz. He’d developed a taste for it during his National Service in Germany, working in military intelligence with an American soldier who’d introduced him to the music.

‘You mean Herbie Nichols?’ Markham remembered suddenly.

‘That’s the one.’ Her fingers moved quickly and she drew out an LP, reverently placing the disc on the turntable. The Prophetic Herbie Nichols, Volume 1. An apt title.

The spare sound of piano, bass and drums filled the flat. It wasn’t warm or intimate. Everything was angular, awkward, as if the corners would never fit snugly. She was listening intently; trying to work out just what Nichols was doing, what he was thinking.

He handed her a glass of wine. A mug of coffee for him. Real coffee, not Camp. He’d been given a proper Italian coffee pot and used it every day. Each time, he thought of the woman who’d brought it back from her travels, long gone from his life now. He still saw her name here and there in the papers, one of an upcoming generation of artists.

The second track ended and Georgina shook her head.

‘It’s lovely, but …’

‘But it’s not you?’ he asked.

She smiled.

‘Never in a million years.’

She liked songs, something with definite form and feeling. And she had the voice to do them justice. All she needed was a chance. A couple of clubs aiming for sophistication had offered her early evening slots. Background music for the drinkers who came in after work.

‘I can’t do that,’ she told Markham after she’d turned them down. ‘I can’t just … be there, like a soundtrack. I want people to listen.’

‘Maybe they will,’ he suggested.

She just shook her head, dark hair flailing around her shoulders.

‘No. And if they started, the manager would sack me. They want something unobtrusive. Something easy.’

A few times she’d broached the idea of moving to London, to try her hand there. He knew it was what her musical career needed. But he’d miss her. She was undemanding, easy. Passionate when they both needed that.

‘There are trains,’ she told him. ‘It’s only a few hours away. And there’s plenty of jazz to listen to down there.’ Georgina raised her eyebrows as she looked at him.

Everything she said was true. Still, he knew the likely outcome. Life and distance would take over. She’d develop new friends, a new career. The visits would dwindle, becoming fewer until they vanished altogether.

***

‘Why don’t you put on some Sarah Vaughan?’ he suggested as the stylus clicked in the end groove. They were curled up together, his arm around her shoulders.

‘You do it,’ Georgina said sleepily. ‘I don’t want to move.’

He chose the album with Clifford Brown on trumpet. It was the singer at her best, making each song her own as the horn glided around and about her.

‘This thing you’re working on,’ she said. ‘It all sounds very mysterious.’

‘Yes, it does,’ he replied, and realised he hadn’t thought about Dieter de Vries all evening.

CHAPTER THREE

He parked the Anglia on Albion Place, kissing Georgina as she headed off for another day behind the shop counter. She had her shoulders hunched against the winter cold, heels clicking swiftly on the pavement.

Baker was already in the office. The newspaper lay unopened in front of him on the card table. The air was thick with the fog of shag tobacco.

‘About time you made it in,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here for half an hour.’

Markham looked at his watch. Not even quarter to nine yet. Still early. He lit a Craven A.

‘Why so early?’

‘This de Vries thing’s been bothering me all night,’ Baker said. ‘Made me dyspeptic. I keep wondering what’s so special about him that someone would go through his room? How would they even know he was gone?’

‘I still think we should give this back to the police,’ Markham told him.

‘I don’t think there’s anything they can do that we can’t.’ But there was a satisfied look on his face. He’d found something to worry at, something to claim his time and his knowledge. ‘Not at the moment, anyway.’

‘Then what do you reckon we ought to do? We’ve got nothing.’

Baker stroked his chin thoughtfully.

‘Take a look at what we do have and try to pick up the trail from there. It’s what I’d have done on the force.’

Markham unbuttoned his jacket and sat behind his desk. For once, the radiator was working well, churning out heat.

‘So what exactly is there?’ He pulled a pad and pencil towards him.

‘He came here two years ago,’ Baker began.

‘To Leeds,’ Markham pointed out. ‘We don’t know how long he’s been in England.’

‘Right enough. I did wonder something, though. Vanishing men and rooms being searched, it’s all very cloak and dagger.’

‘Go on.’

‘That got me thinking he might not even be who he claims,’ Baker continued. ‘Doesn’t work where he said. Perhaps he wasn’t even Dutch, I don’t know. I’ll go and ask her if he ever received any post. He worked somewhere. He had money to live on.’

‘True.’

‘And from his clothes we know he wasn’t a manual labourer.’

Markham added a note to the page.

‘So he probably had a bank account, you mean.’

‘You’re catching on,’ Baker said approvingly. ‘We took a look and didn’t see anything. So either he took all the papers with him, which meant he wasn’t planning on coming back for some reason …’

‘Or whoever searched the place grabbed them.’

‘Exactly. Which means they know he’s not coming back and there’s some covering up going on.’

Markham frowned.

‘Who?’

‘Spies. The whole thing stinks of them. Like that friend of yours who died.’

He hadn’t thought about Ged in a long time, he realised guiltily. He’d died, shot in the chair where Markham was sitting now.

‘Let’s hope it’s not,’ he said, not trusting his voice to form more words.

‘You tell me what’s going on, then?’ Baker pulled out a box of Swan Vestas, struck one, and started puffing on his pipe. ‘That’s what we’ve got to find out.’

The bell of the telephone seemed too loud in the room. Markham waited a moment, lifted the receiver and answered with the number.

‘Is that Dan Markham?’ A woman’s voice. A hint of education in the pronunciation, but it was played down into smokiness.

‘That’s right. How can I help you, Miss–’

‘Fox,’ she replied. ‘Mrs Fox. And I hope you can help us.’ She placed a gentle emphasis on the final word.

‘That depends what you need.’

‘I work with my husband. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Mark Fox.’