Free The New Eastgate Swing by Chris Nickson

job on the Duncan divorce later.’ He smiled. ‘Some jazz tonight.’
    ‘I don’t know what you hear in that racket. Give me a good dance band any day. Billy Cotton or Ted Heath, that’s the ticket.’ He patted the bonnet of the Wolseley. ‘Still, this means we can take on more work.’
    ‘Nothing involving Germans, though.’
    ‘I didn’t know that when we started,’ Baker protested.
    They hadn’t even discussed it since seeing Mark Fox. There was nothing to talk about, anyway. It was over, out of their hands. The cheque had cleared. Forget about it.
    He watched Baker drive proudly away and climbed back up the stairs. He had a few hours before going out to Harehills.
    ***
    Buslingthorpe Lane was quiet. Too many of the factories in the area stood empty now, weeds growing from the gutters and the windows smashed. The era of manufacturing was drawing to a close, no matter what the politicians claimed.
    Day’s Garage was busy, though. The sound of spanners and grunts from inside, a row of motor cars standing outside. He parked and searched for the owner. Martin Day had set up the business after a war spent in the military motor pool. Since then he’d done well for himself, moving to this bigger place five years before. Four mechanics worked for him. He was cheap, good, and quick.
    ‘Can you give it a going over?’ Markham asked.
    Day took a packet of Woodbine from his overalls and lit one.
    ‘Probably just needs new sparking plugs,’ he said, picking a shred of tobacco off his lip.
    ‘You said you could let me have something in the meantime.’
    ‘That one there.’ He pointed at an Escort Estate. ‘I know it doesn’t look much, but it’s solid.’ He chuckled. ‘Won’t do much for your image, but …’
    ‘As long as it gets me there and back.’
    ‘It’ll do that, right enough. I’ll have yours ready by dinnertime on Monday.’ In the office he hunted through a drawer and tossed a set of keys across the room. ‘Just try not to prang it, Dan.’
    He was cautious at first, driving slowly as he got the feel of the vehicle. Up Scott Hall Road, Potternewton Lane, then down Harehills Lane to park a few streets from the small hotel.
    Plenty of time to eat. He found a cafe along the parade on Roundhay Road. Eggs and chips with a few slices of bread and butter and a cup of hot, sweet tea. The yolks properly runny, sopped up by the bread.
    Mr Duncan was waiting on the corner, perfectly punctual. He looked uncomfortable, but so many of the men did when it came to this.
    ‘Do you still want to go through with it?’ Markham asked. A few seconds of silence, then a quick nod.
    ‘I don’t have to … you know?’
    ‘Nothing like that,’ Markham said, reassuring him. ‘You’ll just be in the same bed for a few minutes, that’s all. You don’t even need to touch her.’
    Relief seemed to flood through the man’s face. He probably had a pair of pyjamas in his briefcase, Markham thought. That was so often the way.
    Julie was waiting at the hotel. This was routine for her. Already she looked bored, sitting wrapped in her coat, smoking a cigarette and leafing through a magazine. She barely gave Duncan a glance, smiling at Markham.
    ‘It’s not going to take long, is it, love?’ she asked. ‘Only I have to be in town before five.’
    ‘Just the usual,’ he replied. She was a tired-looking bottle blonde in her early thirties. Married during the war and left pregnant when her husband went off to die at D-Day. Now she did what she could to make ends meet and bring up a child, living in a council flat in Belle Isle. She was honest and she knew the drill well enough by now.
    The hotel owner signed them in as Mr and Mrs Smith and handed Julie the key.
    ‘Right,’ she told Duncan, ‘you come with me. We’ll be done before you can say Jack Robinson.’ His gaze turned to Markham. ‘Five minutes, all right?’
    A quick cup of weak tea and Markham climbed the stairs, not bothering to knock on the door. The