[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.With the lock and the bolt set, he felt safer.***At eleven, after the pubs had closed and the city had bedded down for the night, Markham drove down to the International Club, the shebeen down towards Sheepscar.Monday night and business was good, a press of drinkers all seeking the thrill of the illegal.Brian Harding was there, off in a corner with his head down, so still he might have been dead.Markham bought a large whisky and pulled up a chair to sit across from him.He slid the drink across the table and Harding’s head rose.His eyes were bloodshot, the tiny veins under his flesh broken and red, and he looked as if he hadn’t changed clothes in two or three days.‘Hello, Brian.I thought you could use that.’‘I always can.’ He raised the glass and took a sip.‘Better,’ he pronounced.‘What can I do for you, Dan? Had la belle Hart yet?’He was surprised that Harding could remember their last conversation; after so many years the man’s brain must have been pickled.But he was one of those rare creatures who seemed to function just as well drunk as sober, thoughts and memory still sharp however much he wanted to dull them.God’s little joke.‘Not my type,’ he replied with a smile.‘Anyone’s type if you’re desperate enough.’ He raised the glass in a toast.‘To poor old Freddie.A long time in the ground now.’‘And now she owns the Ford agency.’‘The first decent offer and she’ll sell it.Jo always wanted to be a woman of independent means.It’s the main reason she married Freddie.His family has pots of cash.She thought she’d have the high life.’‘And she didn’t?’ Markham asked with surprise.‘I’ve been to her house.It’s hardly a slum.’‘Well, yes,’ Harding agreed slowly.‘But it’s hardly rich rich, is it? You know what I mean, Dan.Ancestral pile out in the country, walls all around to keep out the peasants.That’s what she’s been angling for all the years I’ve known her.’‘What would you say if I told you that she was hardly getting any offers for Hart Ford?’‘Really?’ The man frowned.‘I’d say there was something a little odd.Aren’t we all supposed to be driving everywhere by 1960 or something? I saw that in the papers.And have little jet cars by the end of the century? You’d have thought they’d be queuing up to take the business off her hands.’‘I was wondering about that.’‘Strange.’ He finished the whisky and stared at the glass.Markham bought him another.‘You know the kind of people who’d be likely to buy the Ford place, don’t you?’‘One or two, I suppose,’ Harding agreed.‘Could you ask around a little and see what’s putting them off?’Harding smiled, showing brown, neglected teeth.‘I can do better than that.Wait here.’He reappeared a few seconds later, trailing someone behind him.‘Dan, this is George Hatton.He might be able to help you.I’ll leave you two to it.’They shook hands.Hatton could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy, with a paunch that jutted like a prow, a nondescript grey suit and trousers held up by wide blue braces.His hair was grey, combed down hard across his head and thin enough to show the pink of his skull.A pair of shrewd eyes showed behind thick glasses.‘Brian said you wanted to ask about business.’ His accent was broad Yorkshire.‘That’s right.What do you do, Mr Hatton?’He tugged at the knees of his trousers and sat down.‘I used to have a boot factory.Started in a back room, ended up with a hundred working for me.’‘Why did you get out?’‘Saw the end of the war coming.It was going to be a different England with peace.Sold at a good price.These days I mostly buy and sell.’He knew the type.They were all over the West Riding.‘Do you know Hart Ford?’‘I do,’ Hatton said.‘Could have been a decent little earner.’‘Could have?’ His question was sharp.‘Word is that the young fellow who died owed the taxman and the bank [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]