Free Dark Briggate Blues by Chris Nickson

do, Dan?’
    ‘Beat the bastard.’
    She was quiet for a long time.
    ‘This Carter sounds nasty.’
    ‘He is.’ He held up the fingers as proof. ‘He has connections, too. He knew what brand of American cigarettes I smoked in Germany.’
    ‘Christ. Look after yourself, Dan.’ She stared into his eyes. ‘Please.’
    ‘I will,’ he promised and smiled. ‘Now, weren’t we talking about something for after the meal?’
    ***
    He woke in the early light, hearing her soft breathing beside him. Their lovemaking had been rowdy, a need in them both, powerful and loud. She’d straddled him, taking the lead, speeding up then slowing down, making it last until he was bucking under her into a final explosion. He reached out, fingers running lightly down her spine, feeling the small bump of each vertebra as she stirred for a moment.
    ‘What time is it?’ she mumbled.
    He turned to glance at the clock.
    ‘Six.’
    ‘God. Wake me in an hour, will you?’
    ***
    She’d never been a morning person. She lingered over tea and toast, telling him more about Italy, little highlights that popped into her head. The statue of Donatello’s Magadalene Penitent in Florence, so raw that it looked as if it could have been sculpted yesterday, the crowds around the Forum in Rome, the light in Naples.
    ‘What about your luggage?’ he asked as she applied her lipstick.
    She turned to him, eyes wide and hopeful. ‘Would you really mind if I left it all here until tonight? I need to see the head of department in an hour about all the students starting next week.’
    He surveyed the mess. There were clothes all over the floor, dresses, slacks, underclothes, paths snaking between them. It would take more than an hour for her to re-pack, longer still to transport everything to her flat in Headingley.
    ‘Of course. You want a lift into town?’
    ‘You’re a godsend.’
    Markham parked and they parted with a kiss. He took time to watch her walk away towards the Art College on Vernon Street, hips swinging, heels clattering against the pavement.
    ***
    He sat in the office, staring at the calendar on the wall without seeing it. His fingers hurt; he’d filled the prescription and taken two more of the pills. All the tiny things he’d always taken for granted became a trial – knotting his tie, tying his shoes, even buttoning his fly.
    Carter, he thought. Bloody Carter.
    Some memory flickered in his head, words he’d heard his American colleague in Hamburg say one day: the best defence is a good offence. Markham hadn’t understood then. Was he talking about the Russians? But now it made sense. What he needed was a good offence.
    He’d brought Carter’s papers from home. Now he spread them out and began to read properly, jotting notes on a stenographer’s pad.
    He worked until noon then packed everything away in a folder. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and Detective Sergeant Baker walked in without knocking, sitting hard on the client’s chair and fanning himself with his hat.
    ‘Off somewhere, Markham?’
    ‘I was just going to eat. Want to join me?’
    ‘Your belly can wait,’ Baker decided. ‘What’s happened to your hand?’
    ‘I had an accident. Broke two fingers.’
    The man looked doubtful. ‘Messing about where you shouldn’t?’
    ‘Just a normal accident.’ Markham shrugged and settled in the chair. Joanna Hart’s lover must have come to nothing as a lead. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Baker?’
    ‘I still like you for the Hart killing. You fit.’
    ‘I told you before. I wasn’t there and I didn’t do it.’
    ‘What if I said I had a witness who says you were there around the time it happened?’
    ‘Then he’s mistaken or a liar. I’m sure you followed up on what I told you.’
    Baker nodded. ‘The shopkeeper in Meanwood says someone came in and bought Craven As,’ he acknowledged. ‘But she can’t describe him. Just that he was young.’ He stared. ‘Could be anyone.’
    ‘Not anyone. Me.’
    ‘And my