Free The New Eastgate Swing by Chris Nickson Page A

couple were in bed. Julie had the sheet pulled up over her breasts. Duncan appeared awkward and embarrassed, but that would come out just right in the photographs. Caught in the act.
    He took ten pictures, six with the flash and four without, before he gave a thumbs up and left. Not even ten past the hour. Another five minutes, paying the owner for the use of the room, and he heard the couple come down again. Ten pounds for Julie, and a quick word with Duncan.
    ‘I’ll develop these and get them to your solicitor,’ he explained. ‘That’s it, apart from the court appearances.’
    ‘No one else will see them, will they?’
    More than half the men asked that. They needed the appearance of adultery for their divorces but they were embarrassed by it; an odd paradox. The rest of the clients swaggered as if they’d just made a great conquest.
    ‘No,’ Markham promised. The negatives and unused images would simply disappear into the file. Down at the corner he asked, ‘Can I give you a lift?’
    ‘I’ll take the bus,’ Duncan muttered and strode quickly away.
    ***
    He’d set up a darkroom of sorts in one of the cellars below his flat. None of the other tenants used the space. Cleaning it out he’d found a strange assortment of items – cigarette cards from the 1920s and ’30s, covered in mould, a rotting gasmask from the war, a pair of women’s shoes that had probably been fashionable not long after Queen Victoria died.
    Developing the film didn’t take long. These weren’t art shots. All he needed was to be able to see the faces clearly. Three of the photographs worked well, enough for any lawyer. He hung them on a line to dry and took the negatives back upstairs.
    Not even five o’clock and the week was over, full darkness outside. Down on Harrogate Road housewives were finishing their shopping. The buses going by were packed with people on their way home. He put on an LP, the new one from Miles Davis, ‘Round About Midnight’, and let himself sink into the music. The trumpet on the title track brought up images of walking in a night-time city, the light off the street lamps reflected in puddles. It was Monk’s tune transmuted for the hours when the pavements were lonely and footsteps provided the rhythm. Music for winter.
    ***
    Georgina was waiting outside Studio 20. Already he could hear the smooth, sensual sound of a tenor sax drifting up from the club as someone worked around ‘Body And Soul’, a straight copy of the old Coleman Hawkins version, right down to the improvisations.
    ‘Busy at work?’ he asked as he kissed her cheek.
    ‘The usual,’ she answered. Her eyes were sparkling, and she shivered as a gust of cold wind battered along Briggate. ‘Let’s go in, it’ll be warmer.’
    There was faint applause as the number ended. At the bottom of the stairs Markham could see the musicians. Piano, bass and, a basic drum kit behind a red-faced tenor player, a boy of about eighteen, hair cut neat and short. The lad reached into a pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead. At least he didn’t start another tune.
    Markham bought two coffees and carried them to a table in the far corner. Georgina had already shrugged off her coat, dressed down in a twinset and burgundy wool skirt. He took out a cigarette and offered it to her. She shook her head. She rarely smoked, looking after her voice.
    There was time while the next set of musicians set up. Small talk, bits and pieces of the day. It was idle, easy chat that Bob Barclay interrupted when he dragged over a chair. He owned the club, a jazz fan and musician his whole life.
    ‘Evening, Dan, Georgina. Did you hear about that thing on Briggate? The jazz funeral?’
    ‘I saw it,’ Markham told him.
    ‘I wish I had,’ Barclay said with a sigh. ‘We did something like that years ago with the Yorkshire Jazz Band, you know.’
    ‘No.’ Maybe it had happened while he was still in Germany.
    ‘Great fun.’ The man’s face lit up with pleasure.