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Authors: Chris Nickson
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soon as he’s here.’ She reached into a drawer and took out a chequebook. ‘One hundred pounds. That’s what we agreed.’
He waited quietly. For a woman who looked so seductive – lemon yellow silk today, with just the hint of cleavage, hair held down by an Alice band – she was precise in her actions. Carefully blotting the ink, tearing out the cheque with small, intent moves.
Markham folded it and placed it in his wallet without even checking the amount.
‘I look forward to meeting Mr Fox.’
Six. The banks had been closed for over two hours; he’d deposit the money in the morning. As he made his way back to Albion Place, Leeds seemed empty, only the people heading for a meal or the cinema out and about.
Baker had left. The undercurrent of typing from the secretarial agency downstairs had vanished. He had the building to himself.
The whole Fox business was a mess. Good pay, but it all nagged at him. As soon as he’d mentioned the two deaths she should have been talking to MI5. Anyone could see that the pieces didn’t add up properly. Never mind, he told himself as he locked the door. They were out of it now and he was glad. He’d never wanted to be part of the cloak and dagger set.
***
‘Leave it?’ Baker said in surprise. He was surrounded by a fog of pipe smoke, the raw smell of shag from the tobacconist’s in County Arcade.
‘Yes. As soon as this Fox bloke shows his face. We’ll bring him up to speed and that’s it.’ He paused. ‘It’s what they’ve paid us for. The whole thing’s gone out of our league.’
‘We’ve done the spadework. The landladies know us.’
‘Fine,’ Markham said. ‘Do your bit for Miss Harding and call it a day. We’ll let the people with the right clearances and authority take care of the rest. Divorce, frauds – that’s our speed. Just forget about it.’
‘You sound like you got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning,’ Baker told him.
‘No. I just had time to think it all through last night.’
He’d smoked cigarette after cigarette, considering every avenue they’d begun to explore on this. None of them looked appealing. And every single one seemed to have danger at the end of it.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Baker agreed finally and turned the pages of the newspaper. ‘There’s something here. Sounds right up your street, jazz, happened on the Headrow.’
‘I know,’ Markham said with a smile. ‘I saw it. Bloody wonderful.’
***
They were about to leave for dinner when the telephone rang.
‘Is this Dan Markham?’ A man’s voice, easy and cultured.
‘Yes.’
‘Hello, this is Mark Fox. I just arrived in Leeds a few minutes ago.’
‘Yes, Mr Fox.’ He looked at Baker, his eyebrows raised, signalling the man to wait. ‘I think we need to have a chat, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I believe you’re right. The Victoria Hotel on Great George Street?’
‘That’s fine. A quarter of an hour?’
***
The Victoria had probably really been a hotel when it was built; there were enough storeys rising up from the street to offer rooms. These days most of the pub’s trade came from workers at the Town Hall. It was a big barn of a place, still with the original etched glass, wood, and brass. But it was uncared-for, the carpets threadbare, no polish on anything, all the old beauty hidden under an air of neglect that hung heavily on the place.
The main bar was busy, men drinking their pints and talking. But no one on his own. Markham found him in the room labelled Bridget’s Bar, off the main hall. He was the only one in there, sitting at a small round table, a glass of whisky and a small jug of water in front of him.
It had to be Mark Fox. The suit was bespoke, beautifully tailored to fall around his body. He looked to be around forty, and the haircut that trimmed his thick, dark hair hadn’t come from the barber on New York Street.
‘I’ll get them in,’ Baker muttered and disappeared.
‘Mr Fox?’ Markham extended his
He waited quietly. For a woman who looked so seductive – lemon yellow silk today, with just the hint of cleavage, hair held down by an Alice band – she was precise in her actions. Carefully blotting the ink, tearing out the cheque with small, intent moves.
Markham folded it and placed it in his wallet without even checking the amount.
‘I look forward to meeting Mr Fox.’
Six. The banks had been closed for over two hours; he’d deposit the money in the morning. As he made his way back to Albion Place, Leeds seemed empty, only the people heading for a meal or the cinema out and about.
Baker had left. The undercurrent of typing from the secretarial agency downstairs had vanished. He had the building to himself.
The whole Fox business was a mess. Good pay, but it all nagged at him. As soon as he’d mentioned the two deaths she should have been talking to MI5. Anyone could see that the pieces didn’t add up properly. Never mind, he told himself as he locked the door. They were out of it now and he was glad. He’d never wanted to be part of the cloak and dagger set.
***
‘Leave it?’ Baker said in surprise. He was surrounded by a fog of pipe smoke, the raw smell of shag from the tobacconist’s in County Arcade.
‘Yes. As soon as this Fox bloke shows his face. We’ll bring him up to speed and that’s it.’ He paused. ‘It’s what they’ve paid us for. The whole thing’s gone out of our league.’
‘We’ve done the spadework. The landladies know us.’
‘Fine,’ Markham said. ‘Do your bit for Miss Harding and call it a day. We’ll let the people with the right clearances and authority take care of the rest. Divorce, frauds – that’s our speed. Just forget about it.’
‘You sound like you got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning,’ Baker told him.
‘No. I just had time to think it all through last night.’
He’d smoked cigarette after cigarette, considering every avenue they’d begun to explore on this. None of them looked appealing. And every single one seemed to have danger at the end of it.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Baker agreed finally and turned the pages of the newspaper. ‘There’s something here. Sounds right up your street, jazz, happened on the Headrow.’
‘I know,’ Markham said with a smile. ‘I saw it. Bloody wonderful.’
***
They were about to leave for dinner when the telephone rang.
‘Is this Dan Markham?’ A man’s voice, easy and cultured.
‘Yes.’
‘Hello, this is Mark Fox. I just arrived in Leeds a few minutes ago.’
‘Yes, Mr Fox.’ He looked at Baker, his eyebrows raised, signalling the man to wait. ‘I think we need to have a chat, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I believe you’re right. The Victoria Hotel on Great George Street?’
‘That’s fine. A quarter of an hour?’
***
The Victoria had probably really been a hotel when it was built; there were enough storeys rising up from the street to offer rooms. These days most of the pub’s trade came from workers at the Town Hall. It was a big barn of a place, still with the original etched glass, wood, and brass. But it was uncared-for, the carpets threadbare, no polish on anything, all the old beauty hidden under an air of neglect that hung heavily on the place.
The main bar was busy, men drinking their pints and talking. But no one on his own. Markham found him in the room labelled Bridget’s Bar, off the main hall. He was the only one in there, sitting at a small round table, a glass of whisky and a small jug of water in front of him.
It had to be Mark Fox. The suit was bespoke, beautifully tailored to fall around his body. He looked to be around forty, and the haircut that trimmed his thick, dark hair hadn’t come from the barber on New York Street.
‘I’ll get them in,’ Baker muttered and disappeared.
‘Mr Fox?’ Markham extended his
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