Read Online The New Eastgate Swing by Chris Nickson - Free Book Online

getting mixed up with? Two dead men and now this.
    ‘Have you been to any of the others?’ He was driving along Princes Avenue, through the broad expanse of Soldiers Field.
    ‘One. He seemed clean enough. One more to go.’
    ‘Where’s he?’
    ‘Down by Potternewton Park.’
    ‘I’ll drop you off.’
    ***
    Back in town Markham wandered over to the Kardomah for a coffee and a chance to think. He’d write up the report for Amanda Fox, put the cheque in the bank, and that would be the end of it. Baker could poke around more into Vreiten’s life if he wanted. There wasn’t going to be much for him to discover about it in Leeds, that was certain.
    As he came back out on to Briggate he heard the sound. Trumpet, trombone and more, playing some Dixieland. He had to stop to be certain he hadn’t imagined it. Then he walked up the street, moving between people, following the noise. What the hell was it?
    ***
    Standing at the corner of the Headrow everything became clearer. A procession, like the New Orleans funerals he’d read about. The jazz funerals, they were called, music sombre and dark on the way to the graveyard, joyful as the musicians made their way home.
    He waited as they passed. A group of students, looking like this was the most fun they’d had in their lives. The young man out in front had a stick like a regimental sergeant major leading a parade. Behind him, a cornet and a saxophone, someone with a trombone, a banjo player, and finally a man playing a tuba, feet splaying from a pram as someone pushed him along. A girl walking beside them was handing out sheets of paper. Markham took one as she passed. It was badly mimeographed, faint and blurred, the music and lyrics for a song. The New Eastgate Swing , the title read. He smiled and pushed it down into his pocket.
    The whole spectacle was unlikely. It was impossible. But it was there. Traffic had stopped, people were gawping in disbelief. There’d certainly been nothing like it in Leeds before. A beautiful, strange joke. The music was ragtag, the players struggling, but that didn’t matter. He followed them down the Headrow and on to Eastgate. The leader moved his stick faster, like a baton, and the tune sped up to double-time, turning into a raucous, enthusiastic version of ‘When The Saints Go Marchin’ In’.
    If he hadn’t seen it, Markham wouldn’t have believed it. He wished he’d had a camera to capture it all. Eastgate swung. For the first time and very likely the last.
    It had brightened his day. The wonderful unexpected. He made his way back to the office with a smile on his face; all the worries about dead Germans vanished from his mind for a few minutes.

CHAPTER SIX
    Baker arrived a little after five, shrugging off his mackintosh and hanging up his hat with a long sigh.
    ‘Did you find anything on the last one?’ Markham asked.
    ‘Nothing in his room. He’s the other one who works at Cokely’s. He feels clean enough to me.’
    A copper’s hunch. It was probably good enough.
    ‘Just write a few lines. I’ll take it over to Fox before I go home.’
    ‘I had a word with a couple of neighbours and the local shops. Nothing unusual.’
    ‘We’ll pass that on.’
    ***
    Amanda Fox read the reports, staring briefly at him before she looked at the sheet on Morten Blum again, going slowly over everything.
    ‘Are you sure?’ she asked after a long silence. ‘He’s a spy?’
    ‘I think it’s very likely.’ Markham chose his words carefully. ‘That’s two dead and one spy. The other two seem clean. It’s all in there.’
    ‘I’ll have to ring people in London,’ she said.
    ‘You haven’t before?’
    ‘When I talked to Mark he said to leave it until he was back. But with this … if Blum’s a spy …’
    ‘When do you expect your husband?’
    ‘He’ll be back here tomorrow. The day after at the latest.’ She crossed her legs and the soft, crackling sound of nylon filled the air for a moment. ‘He’s going to ring you as