The New Eastgate Swing (10 page)

‘You too, Dan. Really.' She squeezed his hand.

‘Do you have a telephone?'

Carla shook her head.

‘Never bothered. No telly, either. I'm a terrible Luddite.' She laughed just as the train whistle sounded and a gush of steam surrounded the engine. ‘You know, I still listen to jazz because of you. Who's good these days?'

‘Monk,' he said and saw her smile. That was the music that had brought them together. ‘Miles Davis. And a fellow called Mose Allison.'

‘Mose?' Carla asked. ‘Really?'

‘Really,' he told her. ‘Plays piano and sings. He sounds so …' He searched for the right word. ‘Hip.'

‘That doesn't sound like a Dan Markham word.'

He could hear the train ready to leave.

‘How do I get in touch with you?'

‘Write to me at the university.' She leaned forward and kissed him very lightly on the lips. Exactly the way she'd done the last time they'd parted.

‘I will,' he promised.

‘I hope so.'

Then the train began to move. She didn't lean out and wave, but he still watched until it had vanished from sight.

***

‘You look like you lost ten bob and found a tanner,' Baker said when Markham walked into the office next morning. ‘You must have had a rough weekend.'

‘It was interesting.' He sat behind his desk, still in his overcoat, and tossed his hat on to the windowsill. ‘What do we have to do? Did you find that missing person?'

‘Camped out in York. Found him in the second place I looked. Had a quiet word and gave him a lift home. Unless he's wandered off again he should be happy in Seacroft. Did you get your snaps?'

‘In and out in ten minutes.' In a little while he'd go to the solicitor, deliver them, and pick up a cheque. ‘Do we have anything else on the go?'

‘Not unless you want me to go and drum something up.'

‘There'll be more soon enough.' He slipped the hat back on. ‘I'll go and deliver these pictures.'

The wind was bitter, whipping across from the North Sea, scouring the streets as he walked to Park Square. No one was sitting out on the benches today, and the flowerbeds were just dark earth, all the colour gone for winter.

At least the solicitor's office was warm, what had once probably been the dining room of a house, with high, coved ceiling and a view out to the street. He waited as the man read his report and assessed the photographs with silent approval, then wrote out the cheque. All done in ten minutes.

He took his time, stopping at the bank, then at a cafe for a cup of tea. No rush, and he had plenty to think about. His sleep has been fitful, all dreams and thoughts about Carla. Everything had seemed settled and comfortable and then she'd shown up, back in his life like a bad penny. Well, perhaps she was in his life, he didn't know yet. Maybe it really was just a passing visit. Certainly it was the last thing he'd expected; just a few minutes together and she'd turned things upside down.

The telephone was ringing as he climbed the stairs to the office, the insistent urgency of the bell making him run.

‘Hello?' he said breathlessly.

‘Dan?' A woman's voice. For a fraction of a second he believed it was Carla. Then he recognised the tone – Mrs Fox.

‘What can I do for you, Amanda?'

‘Could you and your partner come over?' There seemed to be an edge of desperation in her tone. ‘Please?'

‘He's out, but I'm free. What is it?'

‘I'll tell you when you get here,' she answered and then he heard the line go dead. What the hell was going on?

Ten minutes later he was in Woodhouse Square. He pressed the doorbell, waiting for her to buzz him in. Nothing. Markham tried again, then a third time. Still no answer.

Now he was worried.

There was a telephone box on the other side of the square. He dug out some pennies and rang her number. Maybe the bell wasn't working; the explanation could be as simple as that. But no one picked up.

Thinking, he made his way back to Albion Place. Something had gone very wrong, he was certain of that.

Baker was sitting at his card table, munching his way through a cheese and tomato sandwich.

‘Do you know how to pick locks?' Markham asked.

‘Eh?'

He explained quickly, Baker listening intently as he ate.

‘Happen we'd better go and see.' He shook the crumbs from his lap, crumpled the greaseproof wrapping and threw it in the bin. ‘It doesn't sound good, does it?'

There was a crunch of gravel as they walked up the short drive to the building. Still no answer when he rang the bell. Baker reached into a pocket in his jacket and brought out a small, flat leather case. Then he leaned over, peering at the lock and selected two flat picks. He moved one around where a key would fit, then used the other, nodding when he felt it click. The door swung open.

‘I was joking when I asked if you knew that,' Markham said.

‘You don't spend so long in CID without learning a few things.' He was smiling with satisfaction.

He didn't need to work his magic on the Foxes office. The handle turned in Markham's fingers. He pushed the door open, hardly daring to move. But the room was empty.

‘And she just rang a short while ago?' Baker asked.

‘That's right.'

Baker shook his head.

‘Very rum. Best not touch anything, just in case.'

No coat, no handbag. But there was no sign of any struggle, nothing knocked out of place, just the normal jumble of work: folders scattered on the desk, a pen lying on the blotter, a mug with the cold dregs of tea at the bottom.

‘It's like the
Mary Celeste
,' Markham said.

Baker was pacing around the room, hands bunched in the pockets of his raincoat.

‘It's not normal to leave without locking the office,' he said quietly. ‘You came straight over when she rang?'

‘Yes. Can't be more than three quarters of an hour ago. Probably less than that.'

‘Do you know how to get hold of her husband?'

Markham shook his head. ‘I don't even know where they live.'

‘It'll be in the directory. We might as well go, there's nothing to see here. But I'll tell you what, I don't think she's popped out to borrow a cup of sugar.'

At the door he carefully wiped the knob with his handkerchief.

They walked quickly, without talking. Baker turned and entered the public library, climbing the wide tiled stairs and leading the way into a hushed room. He searched along a shelf, taking down a bound telephone directory.

‘Here we are,' he whispered when he found the entry. ‘King Lane. Alwoodley. Do you want to drive or shall I?'

‘I will.'

***

The house was hidden away behind a low wall and a series of beech trees. It stood on its own, detached but not too grand, just enough to announce that the owners had money.

‘I'll park down the road,' Markham said. ‘We'll walk back. Just in case.'

He could see the hinges on the brick wall, but no wrought-iron gates; they'd probably vanished years before to help make Spitfires during the war, and never been replaced.

‘Do you see anyone moving inside?' Baker asked.

Markham checked, his gaze moving from window to window.

‘No,' he replied finally.

‘Let's see who's at home, then.'

Baker shambled along, head down, looking large and harmless. Markham stayed in his wake. The front door had a polished brass knocker in the shape of a wolf's head. But the loud rap brought no answer. He tried again; still no reply.

The garage was empty. The rear of the house had French doors that opened on to a small stone terrace, lawn and flowerbeds beyond. A few seconds with the lock picks and they were inside.

‘Remember,' Baker hissed, ‘don't touch anything. If you need to open a door, use your handkerchief.'

Markham could feel his heart pounding as they moved from room to room. He hardly dared to breathe. A baby grand stood in the front room, lid raised, the music for a Beethoven sonata open on the stand.

Upstairs, the bathroom, and two guest bedrooms that looked as if they hadn't been used in months. They hesitated at the last door.

‘We're going to look like a right pair of Charlies if she just came home for a kip,' Baker whispered.

But the room was empty. They already knew it would be.

The bed was made, all the clothes neatly hung in the wardrobes or folded in a wide chest of drawers.

‘What do you make of it, Dan?'

‘I wouldn't even like to guess.' He sighed. ‘But she wouldn't vanish of her own accord right after asking me to come over.'

‘Seems to me that we need to find her husband.'

‘Wherever he is.'

‘We can't even really tell the force she's missing yet. She's been gone, what, two hours? They'd just laugh at us.'

‘Even you?'

‘Especially me. They'd say I should know better. I don't suppose you still know anyone in the spy business?'

‘No.' His only contact had died three years before.

‘Looks like it's you and me, then.'

‘I'm not sure I want this,' Markham told him. ‘But I don't think we have much bloody choice.' He looked around. ‘There's nothing more we can do here.'

They left the way they'd entered, making sure the French doors locked behind them.

‘We need to think who'd want her out of the way,' Markham said as they returned to town.

‘We don't even know if anyone does. We've no idea what else she and her husband were up to,' Baker pointed out.

‘It's this bringing people from East Germany thing. It has to be.'

‘All we really know is one little piece.'

‘Then we'd better find out more.' He had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

***

He stopped at the garage on Buslingthorpe Lane to pick up the Anglia. Good for one more year, that was the verdict, and it definitely felt like a different car when he drove it. More responsive, faster. Exactly what he needed.

There was no note from Amanda Fox pushed through the letterbox. The telephone wasn't ringing with her apology and rushed explanation.

‘All we can do is wait and see if we hear from her,' he said.

Baker didn't remove his mackintosh.

‘I'll pop over to Millgarth and see what they know about her and that husband of hers.' As Markham raised an eyebrow, he added, ‘Just some general things. There might be something.'

And right now anything at all was better than the nothing they had.

Time passed with aching slowness. Markham checked his watch, surprised that only two minutes had gone by. It must have been a half hour. He smoked one cigarette after another, cracking the window open to let in some fresh air. When he finally heard footsteps on the stair he dashed to the door. But the heavy tread was definitely male.

‘No word from her yet?' Baker asked.

‘I wouldn't still be here if I'd heard anything. What did they say at the station?'

‘They know the Foxes right enough.' He raised his eyebrows as he spoke. ‘Not much time for Mark, he comes across like too much of a toff. But that Amanda, you know what she's like.'

‘Plenty of charm.'

‘Something like that,' Baker agreed. ‘As to what they do …' He shrugged. ‘Their paths don't cross much. It's another way of saying they're in the spy game.'

‘I'll go over to Woodhouse Square again later. Maybe she'll be back.'

‘You don't really believe that, do you, lad?'

‘No,' he admitted. ‘But do you have any better suggestions?'

***

First, though, he went to the Post Office, carrying the parcel he'd wrapped the night before. Two LPs.
Back Country Suite
by Mose Allison and Miles Davis'
Cookin'
. Addressed to Carla at the Art Department of Durham University. See what reaction that brought.

There was no one in Woodhouse Square and no answer when he rang the bell. It had always been a vain hope. Slowly he trudged back past the Victorian richness of the infirmary and the Town Hall, then up the Headrow.

His mind was roiling. Not about Amanda Fox: there was nothing he could do about that. The return of Carla. He'd gone over and over everything she said, seeking out the clues it held. Had she been dropping hints, or was it truly nothing more than passing an empty hour with someone she used to know?

He still didn't have any answers there, either.

And what about Georgina? Yes, it was casual, no mention of romance or forever, but they did well enough together. At least he didn't have to make any decision yet; perhaps he never would. But every time he looked at her he'd be thinking …

Baker just shook his head as Markham entered, not even raising his head from the newspaper.

***

By five they'd still heard nothing. The telephone hadn't rung once. His head was aching, a pounding that even two aspirin couldn't budge. Baker left with a weary, ‘See you in the morning, lad,' and he was left on his own.

He wanted to go home and close his eyes. But he already knew he wasn't about to do that. He was going to try to find Mark Fox if he was still in Leeds.

He started with the places around town – the Victoria on Great George Street where they'd met before, Yates's Wine Lodge, the Horse and Trumpet and the Three Legs on the Headrow, Whitelock's, the Ship, even the Angel Inn. No sign of the man.

There'd be no crowd in the shebeens – the illegal drinking clubs – before closing time at half past ten. Finally he gave up and drove home, too weary to cook, walking round to Nash's on Harrogate Road for fish and chips. Maybe Fox had gone back to Germany.

It was an evening for the balm of silence, more aspirin and the Home Service at a low, soothing volume; a concert of chamber music.