The Ten Year Project

 

It’s hard to believe, but next Spring it’ll be 10 years since my first book set in Leeds was published – The Broken Token, in case you’re curious. There will be a new Tom Harper novel appearing then, the eighth in the series, which will mean I’ve published a total of  22 novels and a collection of short stories set in Leeds in the last decade.

That’s not counting a couple of plays and involvement in the exhibition The Vote Before The Vote, where Annabelle Harper stepped into Leeds history.

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Phew.

I’m going to celebrate it. 10 years is worth celebrating. It took a while to figure out how, though…

It has to be stories. After all, I’m a writer. So from November to next March I will have a short story with one of my Leeds characters each month. I’ll be starting with Dan Markham, taking him into the very beginning of the 1960s, then working my way back through time – Urban Raven, Lottie Armstrong, Tom Harper, Simon Westow, and finishing, quite rightly, with Richard Nottingham.

It’s going to be a challenge. I need to try and capture the essence of each of them, and in some cases it’s been a few years since we met. But I never like to make it easy for myself. I’ve even come up with a logo for everything 10th, just to warn you.

10 years

The Dan Markham story will appear in early November. I hope you’ll like in. In the meantime, you could read the new Simon Westow book, The Hocus Girl. It’s out in the UK in hardback now, and it’ll be available everywhere as an ebook from November 1.

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How Do I Rate My Books?

As you hopefully know, I have a new book coming out next week (it called The Hanging Psalm, in case you weren’t aware). Take a big breath time, it’s the start of a new series, and my publisher has just accepted the follow-up, which will be appearing in a year’s time (I know, it’s hard to think that far in advance).

When something like that happens, though, I tend to look at those titles on my bookshelf with my name on them and have a think about them. It’s very rare for me to go back and re-read any. Certainly not for pleasure; I might have forgotten the details of the plots, but not the months of work that went into each one. If you’re a writer, by the time you’ve written something, revised it, gone through the publisher’s edits and then the proofs, you’re pretty much sick of seeing it.

But I have a surprising number of books out there. Quite often it astonishes me, makes me wonder just how that happened. And it makes me wonder what I think of them in retrospect. So, it’s time for an honest assessment.

 

I started out with the Richard Nottingham books. The Broken Token took several years to see the light of day. It was finished in 2006 and finally appeared four years later. In my memory, it’s curiously poetic, as is most of the series, a style that seemed to fit the character and the times – Leeds in the 1730s, for those who don’t know. Cold Cruel Winter was named one of the Mysteries of the Year by Library Journal, something that floored me. It’s a book that came from a single fact – the trial transcripts of executed men were sometimes bound in their skin. What crime writer wouldn’t relish doing something with that? And it was where I began to explore the grey area between right and wrong. The third book, The Constant Lovers, has its points, but taking Richard out of Leeds, even if it’s just into the surrounding villages, was probably a misstep. It diffused the focus. Leeds, tight and dense, is his milieu, and he’s been back in there ever since. The standout in the series for me, though, will always be At the Dying of the Year. It was the hardest to write, the one that cut deepest into me and left me depressed for a while afterwards. But the emotions are very raw and real on every page. Even thinking about it now, I can still feel them. Returning to Richard after a few years with Free from All Danger felt like a homecoming of sorts. I’d originally intended eight books in the series. That was number seven, but it left him at the end with some share of happiness, and God knows he deserves that.

I do have a soft spot for the pair of novels featuring Lottie Armstrong (Modern Crimes and The Year of the Gun). She’s so vibrant and alive, both as a young woman and in her forties. It’s impossible not to like her. The problem is that I painted myself into a corner; it’s impossible to ever bring her back, although she seems quite happy to leave things as they are. In different ways, I’m hugely proud of them both, and particularly of Lottie. I still feel she might pop in for a cup of tea and a natter.

The Dan Markham books (Dark Briggate Blues and The New Eastgate Swing) book came after re-reading Chandler once again and wondering what a private detective novel set in the North of England would be like. I found my answers. The original is the better book, harder and more real, and it spawned a play, to my astonishment. The second certainly isn’t bad, but it doesn’t quite catch the pizazz of the first.

Then there are the anomalies – a three-book series set in medieval Chesterfield. The first came as a literal flash on inspiration, the others were harder work, and the difference shows. I lived down by there for a few years, I like the town itself and I think that shows. There’s also a pair of books set in Seattle in the 1980s and ‘90s that hardly anyone knows about – they’re only available on ebook and audiobook. But I spent twenty years in that city, a big chunk of my life, and I loved it. I was involved in music as a journalist (still am, to a small degree), and the novels, still crime, are part of that passion. You know what? I still really believe in them. They’re pretty accurate snapshots of a time and place, and the scenes that developed in the town – the way music itself was a village in a booming city.

The Dead on Leave, with Leeds in the 1930s of the Depression, was a book born out of anger at the politics around and how they seem to be a rehash of that period. It’s a one-off, it has to be, but I do like it a lot – more time might change my view, but honestly, I hope not.

And that brings me to Tom and Annabelle Harper. I’m not quite sure why, but I feel that they’re maybe my biggest achievement to date. That’s a surprise to me, given that I swore I’d never write a book set in Victorian times. Yet, in some ways they feel like the most satisfying. More complex, yet even more character-driven. And I think someone like Annabelle is the biggest gift anyone can be given. She’s not the focus of the novels, but she walks right off the page, into life. I didn’t create here – she was there, waiting for me. And what feel like the best books in the series are the ones that involve her more, in an organic way: Skin Like Silver and The Tin God. Not every book works as well as I’d hoped; in Two Bronze Pennies I don’t think I achieved what I set out to do. My ambition was greater than my skill. But maybe I’m getting there. The next book in the series, The Leaden Heart, takes place in 1899, the close of a century, and I feel I’m starting to do all my characters real justice. I’m currently working on one set in 1908, so the 20th century is already here, and I still want to take them to the end of World War I, a natural closing point for the series. I feel that I’m creating not only good crime novels, and I strive to make each one quite different, but also a portrait of a family in changing times – and also a more complete picture of Leeds.

And that’s always been the subtext, although it took me a long time to realise it. Leeds is the constant, the character always in the background, changing its shape and its character a little in each era. And I’m trying to portray that, to take the readers there, on its streets, with their smells and noises. I’m hoping to have a novel set in every decade from 1890s-1950s (maybe even the ‘60s, if inspiration arrives), to show how the place changed.

In a way, the nearest I’ve come to running after the character that is Leeds and its essence is a collection of short stories, Leeds, the Biography, even if I didn’t realise it at the time. It’s based on anecdotes, snippets of history, and folk tales, and runs from 360 CE to 1963. For the most part, they’re light tales. But one has resonance – Little Alice Musgrove. That still stands as a good story (you can probably find it online)

But with The Hanging Psalm, out next week, I’m going back to an unexplored place, Leeds in the 1820s, when the Industrial Revolution was still quite new. The Regency, although there’s very little gentility to it; better to describe it as Regency Noir. The book is still too fresh for me to asses it fairly. But I do know how electric it felt to write. So I’m hopeful it will stand the test of time in my mind…and in the meantime, I hope you’ll buy it (definitely buy it if you can!) or borrow it from the library and enjoy it.

Hanging Psalm revised

A Play With Live Jazz

I’ve been sitting on this news for a while, but as the official announcement was made today, I’m very pleased to tell you that my play, New Briggate Blues, commissioned by Jazz Leeds, will be performed next July as part of JazzLeedsFest 2018.

It features Dan Markham, the Leeds enquiry agent from Dark Briggate Blues and The New Eastgate Swing, along with his wife, Carla, as well as a live jazz quintet, who will perform during the play.

It’s very much a celebration of Studio 20, the Leeds jazz club that features heavily in both books, and will be directed by Ray Brown.DBB cover crop

Audiobook Competition

 

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A copy of the audio version of Dark Briggate Blues, wonderfully read by Paul Tyreman. This is the mp3 version, so all eight hours fit on a single disc.

Well, you wonder, how can I get this wondrous thing?

It’s simple. Just write a comment under this blog saying in which decade Dark Briggate Blues is set. I’ll select a winner from the correct answers on April 16.

Go on, you know you want to.

The Morning After…

…the night before.

Yesterday was the launch for The New Eastgate Swing, my second novel featuring enquiry agent Dan Markham and set in the Leeds of the 1950s.

I had absolutely no idea how many people might show up, other than the publisher, editor and publicist from Mystery Press would be arriving. No pressure at all.

So when there were 25 of you there, I was overjoyed. You made the effort on a chilly Thursday evening in February, and I’m immensely grateful.

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You listened, you laughed in the right places (i.e., with me not at me), you seemed to enjoy yourselves – although that could have been the free wine – and you mingled after for a chat. The icing on the cake? You bought some books. Some of them might even have been mine.

Thank you all, those who came, those who couldn’t but were there in spirit. I’m grateful and touched by your kindness and support (and my gratitude to Waterstone’s Leeds for hosting the event). It honestly means a lot.

This morning, thinking back over it all, there was only one thing missing. I wish my parents were still here to have gone to these launches. Times involving these books are when I tend to miss them the most. But life goes on, and its ending is part of it, too. Maybe, somewhere, they know.

But to all of you, in the here and now – thank you again.

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Living On Eastgate Time

Yes, The New Eastgate Swing is officially here, and the launch is just around the corner (Thursday, February 11, 7pm at Waterstone’s in Leeds – with FREE WINE), the perfect place to buy a copy, although other Waterstone’s and vendors are available, of course.

Having given you one taste of the book, here’s another, just enough to twist your arm and make you part with your money, I hope…

He was reading The Quiet American when the telephone rang. Without even thinking, he reached over and lifted the receiver, hearing the coins drop into the box when he answered.

‘Hello Dan, how are you? It’s been a long time.’

The voice was so familiar. He ought to know it … then she gave a soft, throaty chuckle and he could place her. Carla. She’d walked out of his life three years before, caught up and broken by the case that ruined his fingers. There’d been a final meal when she made her farewell and then she was gone. He’d loved her. It had taken months for him to realise that, even longer before her ghost stopped walking through his dreams.

‘I’m doing quite well,’ he answered hesitantly. ‘What about you? Where are you?’

‘I’m down at the station. My train’s been delayed. Look, I don’t suppose you fancy a drink, do you? I have a couple of hours to kill.’

‘Of course.’ He didn’t even need to think about it.

‘Oh good.’ She sounded genuinely pleased. ‘The Scarborough Hotel in a few minutes?’

‘Yes.’

****

Markham surfaced to the sound of banging, not sure where it was coming from as he opened his eyes. Blinking, he glanced at his wristwatch. Five minutes to four. Almost like night outside.

The noise continued, steady and growing louder. The door. Someone was knocking at his door. He struggled up, body still feeling heavy and moving slowly, dragging on shirt and trousers.

‘Hold your bloody horses,’ he shouted.

Dressed, pushing his fingers through his hair, he turned the lock. There was a man in a trilby, cheap suit, and worn mackintosh, a thin Clark Gable moustache over his upper lip. Next to him a copper in uniform, the point of his helmet almost touching the ceiling.

‘Are you Daniel Markham?’ the man in plain clothes asked. He was short, probably the bare minimum for a policeman, with an aggressive, bantam expression on his face.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Anderson, sir. I’d like you to accompany me down to the police station if you’d be so good.’ Everything very polite, but the tone brooked no objection.

‘Why?’ he asked in confusion. ‘What’s happened?’

‘We have reason to believe you might be able to help us in our enquiries.’

‘What enquiries?’ He put a hand against the jamb. ‘If you want me to help you, I want to know with what.’

Anderson glared at him.

‘Do you know a man called Morten Blum?’

He could feel the pit of his stomach sink.

‘I know who he is. I’ve never met him. We were hired to check on him – my partner and I. Why? What’s happened?’

‘He’s dead, sir, and under very suspicious circumstances. If you’d like to get your coat, we can be on our way.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He slipped on a sports jacket, the overcoat on top, and gloves, then turned out the light and locked the door before following them down the stairs.

Christ, what was going on?

****

Moving in a crouch, running through the empty space with his heart in his mouth, it was like being back in the training he’d had at Catterick Camp. The only difference being that there was no sergeant screaming at him.

By the time he reached the building he was gasping for breath and his heart was pounding. He waited for Baker. The only sound was the deep thrum of a generator from somewhere inside.

Then the man was there. He’d moved in silence. Markham could feel breath against his ear and two quiet words: ‘Follow me.’

Baker knew what he was doing. He seemed to go on instinct, to disappear as he moved, almost impossible to spot. His footsteps hardly seemed to disturb the ground. Finally he halted.

‘There’s a door a few yards along. We’ll go in there. Give it ten minutes. If the watchman’s coming, he should have passed by then.’

‘What the hell did you do in the war?’

‘Didn’t I ever tell you? I was in Number 4 Commando. Now keep your head down and stay shtum.’

The seconds seemed to stretch out endlessly. Markham could feel the sweat rolling down his back and his hands were clammy.

Finally there was a nudge in his ribs and a hand gesture. They crept to the door and Baker handed him a torch.

‘Keep that shining on the door whilst I open it.’

The lens was taped so only a pinprick of light showed. He focused the beam on the lock. A few movements and he could hear the tiny click as it freed. The handle turned and he held his breath, praying there was no alarm.

Just silence and they slipped inside. Baker closed the door behind them.

‘We can breathe a bit easier now,’ he said. He sounded relaxed, almost happy. ‘The watchman won’t come inside.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Stands to reason.’ He was still whispering but the words seemed to echo away into the vastness. ‘If there’s something secret in here, they won’t want everyone seeing it.’ He switched his torch back on, letting the light play around on the far walls. ‘This is too big for us to search together. We’ll have to split up. You go to the left. Keep your gloves on and the beam covered.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Meet back here in half an hour.’

He began. It was nothing more than cavernous, empty space. Each footstep felt as loud as a scream. He kept one gloved hand over the torch lens, giving just enough of a glow to direct him.

A door ahead was unlocked and took him into another part of the factory. This had been divided into smaller rooms. He tried every door. All offices, all empty. A row of them that stretched into the distance. How big was this bloody place, he wondered?

The last door stuck. But it wasn’t locked. Markham put his shoulder against it and pushed. It gave noisily, scraping against the concrete floor. He held his breath, expecting to hear someone running, alerted by the sound. Nothing. There was only silence.

A camp bed, the type he’d seen so often in barracks. Sheets and blankets neatly folded. In one corner a sink with a towel hanging over the edge. And in the air, something familiar. Just very faint, but definitely there.

The smell of Amanda Fox’s perfume.

Markham began to search, opening up the bedding, the towel, looking everywhere for any definite sign she’d been here. On his hands and knees he looked in the corners and along the skirting board. Something glinted under the bed, against the wall. He stretched, fingertips rubbing against it, then pulled it towards him. A gold ring. A wedding ring with some fine engraving and a beautifully set sapphire. He’d seen it before. It had been on her hand the last time she’d come to his office. He slipped it into the side pocket of his battledress trousers, and made sure everything in the room looked the way it had before.

Questions. Too many of them and not enough time. Only fifteen minutes left.

He moved quickly, trying to stay quiet but needing to check everything. Three locked doors; he knocked softly in case she was inside. No answer, only the soft, constant hum of machinery.

And no Amanda Fox.

He was back at the meeting place on the dot of half an hour.

‘I–’ Markham began, but Baker cut him off.

‘You need to see this.’ His voice was sober and chilling. ‘Now, Dan.’

He led the way as if he’d memorised it, barely needing the light. The path twisted and turned until he stood in front of a door.

‘Open it. Use your torch, it’s all right.’

Mystified, he turned the handle and switched on the beam.

The room was as big as a football field, the ceiling high above, lost in the darkness. At first he couldn’t make out what filled the space. Then he realised: boxes. Cardboard boxes, folded, waiting to be assembled. Each one about six feet long and two feet wide. Wave after brown wave of them. Thousands of them.

More than that. Hundreds of thousands of them. Maybe millions.

Markham turned.

‘What …?’

‘They’re coffins.’ Baker’s voice was empty. ‘Bloody cardboard coffins.’

‘But,’ he began and understood he didn’t have anything more to say. He let the light play over everything. There were acres of them.

‘Everything ready for when they drop that nuclear bomb.’ He heard the long sigh. ‘I just wanted you to see it. We’d better get out of here.’

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A Taste Of That New Eastgate Swing

It’s just a couple of week until Dan Markham’s back and The New Eastgate Swing is published. It’s 1957, the Cold War is raging, and Markham’s world is going to change. Read about it here…and if you’re in Leeds on February 11, come to the launch at Waterstone’s. There’s even going to be some free wine, I hear.

But in a blatant attempt to whet your appetite, here’s an short extract. Enjoy…

 

‘I’m sorry,’ she said breathlessly as the waiter pulled out a chair for her. There was a shhh of nylon as she sat. ‘Have you been waiting long?’ The woman held out a hand and he shook it lightly.

‘Not really, Mrs Fox.’

‘Amanda,’ she told him. ‘Please.’

‘Amanda,’ he echoed as she pulled a cigarette from her handbag and he flicked his lighter. ‘Now, what’s all this about?’

She’d arrived late, escorted over by the waiter. In her early thirties, he judged, and wearing a close-fitting grey jersey dress that reached to her knees. It flattered her and she knew it, moving easily on high heels. Dark hair in an Italian cut, subtle makeup and a graceful, Audrey Hepburn face.

He’d had time to sit, staring around the restaurant and smoking. The place was new, fitted out in leather and oak, wanting to appear expensive, solid and timeless. The year before it had been different. Another couple of years it would be something else again.

‘Let’s wait a few minutes for that.’ Her eyes were bright, a deep, mysterious blue. ‘We’ll eat first. I always like pleasure before business, don’t you?’ It was a gentle tease. ‘I’m surprised we’ve never met before.’

‘It’s just how things are, I suppose.’

She carried an air of sophistication, assured, in control. Next to her he felt juvenile, provincial. She ordered quickly, as if she knew the menu by heart. He decided on steak and kidney pie. Very English. Very filling and plain.

‘Then I’m glad to finally change that.’ She flashed a brilliant smile, very white teeth and blood-red lips.

‘You said your husband’s abroad?’

She nodded.

‘Germany. We do quite a bit of business over there, he’s gone a few times each year. Bonn, West Berlin.’ She shrugged. He tried to place her accent. Somewhere in the Home Counties, a good education. But grammar school, not private he decided. Then plenty of polish.

‘I wouldn’t have thought there was much for an enquiry agent over there.’

‘Oh.’ She lit a cigarette and waved the words away in a thick plume of smoke. ‘Still the fallout from the war. Tell me about yourself, Mr Markham.’

‘Dan.’

Amanda Fox nodded her acknowledgement, staring at him coolly.

‘You must have started in this game when you were young.’

‘Seven years ago. I was twenty-one.’

‘Are you good at what you do?’

‘I like to think so,’ he replied with a soft smile.

‘There was some business a while ago, wasn’t there?’ She tapped her cigarette in the crystal ashtray. ‘Before we moved here.’

‘Yes.’ He wasn’t about to say more. If she knew, she’d already read the newspaper clippings and heard the gossip.

The food arrived and they made small talk – the weather, the way traffic grew worse each month – until the plates had been cleared and coffee sat in front of them.

‘Do you know Germany at all?’ Amanda Fox asked as she lit another cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling. He tried to read her face but she was giving nothing away.

‘I did my National Service there.’

‘Really?’ Her eyes smiled for a moment. ‘Where were you?’

‘Hamburg, mostly. Some time in West Berlin. I was military intelligence.’

‘Mark was there after the fighting ended. Stayed there for a couple of years, then Vienna. He made some good contacts. Maybe you met him?’

‘Was he an officer?’

‘A captain. Why?’

‘We didn’t mix too much with them.’

‘Of course, sorry. Do you speak the lingo?’

‘A little.’ He’d learned enough to get by. ‘What about you?’ Markham asked. ‘What do you do?’

‘Oh, I just help around the office.’ She said it dismissively, as if she was just a secretary or receptionist. He didn’t believe a word of it.

‘What does your husband do in Germany?’

‘Background stuff, mostly. Checking on people that companies want to bring over. The whole denazification process wasn’t always thorough, shall we say?’ She flashed him another white smile. ‘Mark goes into more depth.’

‘I thought that would be government business.’

‘They farm some of it out. As I said, Mark has contacts.’

He nodded. The old boys’ network in action. The way everything was done in this country.

‘And what would you want from me?’

‘Let me ask you something, Dan. You were in intelligence. Did you have to sign the Official Secrets Act?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good,’ she said with a smile. ‘That makes everything much easier.’

‘Why?’ Suddenly Markham was very suspicious. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s nothing much. Just keeping an occasional eye on people who end up around here.’

‘People?’ he asked sharply. ‘What people?’

‘Germans who would be useful to our defence industry,’ Amanda Fox glanced around the restaurant before she answered and spoke very quietly.

‘From the West or East?’ That was important.

‘East, of course,’ she replied coolly. ‘We work with the Gehlen people in West Berlin, bring them out, give them new names and backgrounds. I’m sure you can understand why.’

Of course. No one in this country would be happy to have a German around. Not with the war still so close in memory.

‘The government knows?’ He wanted to be certain.

‘It’s their idea, Dan. These men all have good skills.’

‘I don’t understand, why can’t you do it yourselves?’ he wondered.

‘Mark is gone so often. We’re pretty much a one-man band. As I said, I just look after the office. What we need is someone who has the skills and background.’ Now he was certain she knew all about him; this wasn’t lucky dip and hope for the best on her part. ‘We pay generously,’ she added, ‘and it won’t take a great deal of your time.’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Does it sound interesting?’

‘Maybe. I’ll need to talk to my partner. He’s ex-police.’

‘All right,’ she agreed, but he saw he’d sprung something unexpected on her.

‘We’ll talk about it and I’ll be in touch.’ He shook her hand as he rose. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll have had to sign the Act, too. I’ll give you a ring on Monday, Mrs Fox.’

‘Amanda,’ she corrected him.

‘Of course. Amanda.’

 

***

 

He strolled thoughtfully back through town. There was a weekend eagerness in the Friday afternoon crowds. Women squeezed past the top-hatted doorman to spend their wages at Marshall & Snelgrove’s department store. An older generation sat upstairs in Fuller’s and sipped tea.

He wondered exactly what Amanda Fox and her mysterious husband wanted. More than the job she’d promised, he was certain of that.

Baker hadn’t returned yet. He spent a while cleaning up some of the paperwork, filing notes and pictures and cleaning off his desk. The card table sat there accusingly, a paperback book under one of the legs to keep it steady. They needed something more professional if people were going to take them seriously.

By four he was still on his own, desk clean, everything put away. No rain yet, but the skies were as heavy as slate. Should he wait, or simply call it a day and beat the traffic out on Harrogate Road?

He was just emerging on to the street when he heard a shout and saw Baker turning the corner from Lands Lane.

‘Let’s go and get a cuppa,’ he said as he lumbered close, hands deep in his raincoat pockets, eyes serious.

Upstairs at the Kardomah, Markham ordered coffee from Joyce, the waitress he’d known for years. Tea and a slice of Dundee cake for Baker. He waited until the man had poured sugar into his drink.

‘You don’t look too happy.’

‘Well …’ he began, taking his pipe from a bulging suit pocket and lighting it. ‘I am and I’m not. That Miss Harding was about as helpful as she was yesterday. But I finally got her to let me look at the post that had arrived for our friend in the last few days. She had it locked away in a bureau.’

‘And?’

He pulled out an onionskin aerogramme and let it fall on the table.

‘Just some ‘Dear Occupant’ bumf and this. She didn’t notice me take it. I had a look inside.’

He’d opened it slowly and carefully. Dutch stamps and a Rotterdam postmark. Markham began to read then glanced up quickly.

‘See what I mean?’ Baker asked. ‘That’s Kraut, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ Markham answered.

‘Why would a Dutchman be writing in German?’

Markham let the question hang as he scanned the words. Either his German was rustier than he thought, or half of this didn’t make sense. He looked again, taking his time, trying to put a meaning to it all. He could follow a few sentences here and there. The rest was gibberish. ‘Did you speak it?’ he asked.

‘Never learnt. Why? What does it say?’

‘That’s the problem. It doesn’t.’

Baker look confused.

‘It’s got to say summat.’

‘A few sentences do. “Took the train to Magdeburg.” Then there’s “Across by Salzwedel.” They’re both in East Germany. A couple more like that, place names in the DDR. The rest is just nonsense.’

‘Are you sure it’s not just you?’

‘Positive.’ He folded the letter. ‘I tell you what, Stephen, we’re in over our heads with this one.’

 

The telephone was ringing. He blinked his eyes and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Quarter past five, the luminous hands read. Still pitch dark. Who the hell could it be at this time?

There was a chill in the living room, enough to make him shiver as he lifted the receiver.

‘I hope this is important,’ he said. There was frost on the outside of the window, making the harsh light of the street lamps blurry.

‘I’m not calling you at this hour for my bloody health,’ Baker answered. ‘I’m down at the office. Can you get here?’

‘Why? What is it?’

‘Just get yourself here.’ He hung up, letting the line buzz.