Free Dark Briggate Blues by Chris Nickson Page A

witness could be telling the truth about seeing you at Hart Ford after it closed.’
    ‘Who is he?’
    Baker’s smile was as grim as death.
    ‘You think I’m going to say and give you a chance to nobble him? I wasn’t born yesterday, lad. All I need now is the weapon and they can start preparing the hangman’s noose.’
    ‘Then you’ll be looking for a long time.’
    For a fat man Baker moved quickly. He was up from the chair, leaning across the desk and pulling Markham by the tie until their faces were an inch apart. He could smell the rank sourness of the policeman’s breath.
    ‘Don’t play the clever bugger with me. Someone’s dead, lad. It’s not a fucking game. I can get a search warrant for this office and that flat of yours like that.’
    ‘Look all you like. You won’t find a gun because there isn’t one. Help yourself. I tell you what, I’ll even give you the run of the place whilst I’m out.’
    The detective let go of the tie and stood up.
    ‘You’re a cocky little bastard, Markham.’
    ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ He picked up the folder and riffled through it. ‘See? No gun hidden inside. I’m taking this with me.’ Then he opened the top drawer, produced a key and placed it on the desk. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d lock up when you leave and pop this through the letterbox. If you want me I’ll be at Lyons.’
    On Albion Place he lit a cigarette and glanced back at the building. He could leave Baker there. The man might loathe enquiry agents, but he was honest. He wasn’t a copper who planted evidence or lied for a conviction.
    And the gun was safely in the river. But who was the witness who claimed to have seen him at Hart Ford? Carter’s doing, it had to be. Trying to tighten the screws just a little more. But as soon as Baker dug deeper he’d see it was all lies.
    He ordered a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea, reading through more of the papers. He couldn’t find anything illegal, but it told him the extent of Carter’s empire. Clubs, shops, businesses. If he carried on at this rate, in a couple more years he’d be someone with real power in Leeds; too big to dislodge.
    Markham had just put the papers away when something metallic dropped on his empty plate. The office key. He looked up to see Baker standing there.
    ‘Your office is clean.’
    ‘I told you it was.’
    ‘You could have ditched the shooter.’
    ‘I could, but I didn’t.’ A lie, he thought, but it was also true. He hadn’t used the gun to murder anyone.
    ‘Or it could be in your flat.’
    ‘Come and take a look, Sergeant.’
    ‘All right,’ Baker agreed. ‘I want to see how someone like you lives.’
    ***
    The man was thorough. He went through all the drawers and cupboards, checked the mattress for rips, felt every pillow. On top of the high cistern in the toilet, the back of the dressing table. Baker looked distastefully at Carla’s clothes thrown all across the floor and the records stacked against the wall.
    ‘You think you’ve been clever, don’t you, Markham?’
    ‘I’ve been honest with you.’ He’d even made a cup of tea for them both as the policeman searched.
    ‘I still think you’re behind this.’
    ‘And I know I’m not. So do you, really. If I were you I’d take a closer look at this witness you have.’
    ‘You would, would you?’ Baker’s tone oozed sarcasm. ‘I suppose you’d teach your granny to suck eggs, too. I don’t need lessons from a kid on how to do my job, Markham.’
    He paused at the door. ‘You should teach your slut to pick up her clothes. This place is a bloody tip.’
    ***
    Carla arrived in the late afternoon, looking worn and despondent.
    ‘I’d forgotten how dirty this bloody city is. I’ve only been back a day and I feel grubby already.’
    ‘It’s Leeds,’ was all he could say.
    By seven they’d moved the luggage back to her flat in Headingley. It was a garden flat – a cellar in everything but name – with front windows that looked