The New Eastgate Swing (3 page)

***

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.

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.'