showed on his chin where he’d missed them with the razor. He wore a threadbare cardigan over a checked shirt and tie. Slippers peeked out from under a pair of baggy corduroy trousers.
‘Daniel Markham?’ he asked in a hoarse voice.
‘Hello, Mr Smith,’ he answered with a smile.
It was still the easiest case he’d ever had. The man had shuffled into his office one Friday afternoon, heavily wrapped up in an overcoat, scarf and flat cap. He’d introduced himself as Mr Smith; he believed his wife was having an affair. There was nothing unusual about that, except he had to be close to seventy and she was half his age.
It only took Markham four days to gather the evidence. Mrs Smith came into Leeds every day to spend time with a butcher in Bramley. Straight from the bus stop to the shop. It wasn’t glamorous deception; it wasn’t anything much at all. He took the pictures and presented them quietly to his client.
Mr Smith really was Smith. Ted Smith. He had a small fortune; he’d designed and patented something for aeroplanes then built it in his small factory. The RAF had bought the device during the war, then the commercial airlines had been clamouring once the fighting was over. When he told his wife he wanted a divorce she’d threatened to take him for everything he was worth. Then he produced the photographs. She went off to Bramley without a penny.
‘I’m grateful, lad,’ he said as he wrote out a cheque with a very generous fifty pound bonus. ‘If there’s ever owt you need, you come and see me. I appreciate someone who does a good, fast job.’
Now was the time to see if he’d meant it.
‘Come in,’ Smith said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
They settled at the kitchen table. Smith moved aside a pile of papers covered with sketches for some component and put down a plate of biscuits. He might have looked frail but Ted Smith was a powerful man. His name opened every door in the Civic Hall; he knew everyone important in Leeds and plenty down in London. He poured the tea, nibbled on a digestive and said, ‘It must be summat important.’ He nodded at Markham’s left hand. ‘Anything to do with those?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you need?’
Markham didn’t hesitate.
‘Access to people on the council.’
Smith looked thoughtful. He pulled a pipe from the pocket of his cardigan and lit it, puffing until he was satisfied that it was drawing properly.
‘Councillors or them as really run things?’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘A big one, lad.’ He smiled. ‘Councillors come and go. But they’re not the ones who get things done. It’s mostly the folk as run different departments as have the power. Tell me something.’
‘What?’
‘Do you know who your councillor is?’
‘No,’ Markham admitted.
Smith pointed with the pipe stem.
‘See, that’s what I mean. Most people couldn’t even tell you who was Lord Mayor.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Need to keep your finger on the pulse. What happens here is as important as what those buggers in Whitehall are doing. So who do you need to talk to?’
‘Someone in licensing and someone in planning,’ Markham said. ‘People with influence.’
Smith nodded.
‘I know just who you need.’ He puffed on the pipe for a few more seconds. ‘How powerful is the person you’re up against?’
Markham laughed. Ted Smith had always been a perceptive man.
‘Very. He killed someone but I can’t prove it.’
‘That murder in the newspapers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Talked to the police?’
‘They say he’s clean.’
‘Aye, well, most coppers share a single brain cell. Let me ring a few people. You’ll hear in the morning. That do you?’
‘Thank you.’
Smith waved away the gratitude.
‘It’s nowt. From the look of you, you’re still going to need plenty of luck.’
‘Very likely.’
‘If there’s anything else I can do to help, make sure you let me know.’
‘I will.’
‘I mean it, Daniel. You saved me a lot of money and
‘Daniel Markham?’ he asked in a hoarse voice.
‘Hello, Mr Smith,’ he answered with a smile.
It was still the easiest case he’d ever had. The man had shuffled into his office one Friday afternoon, heavily wrapped up in an overcoat, scarf and flat cap. He’d introduced himself as Mr Smith; he believed his wife was having an affair. There was nothing unusual about that, except he had to be close to seventy and she was half his age.
It only took Markham four days to gather the evidence. Mrs Smith came into Leeds every day to spend time with a butcher in Bramley. Straight from the bus stop to the shop. It wasn’t glamorous deception; it wasn’t anything much at all. He took the pictures and presented them quietly to his client.
Mr Smith really was Smith. Ted Smith. He had a small fortune; he’d designed and patented something for aeroplanes then built it in his small factory. The RAF had bought the device during the war, then the commercial airlines had been clamouring once the fighting was over. When he told his wife he wanted a divorce she’d threatened to take him for everything he was worth. Then he produced the photographs. She went off to Bramley without a penny.
‘I’m grateful, lad,’ he said as he wrote out a cheque with a very generous fifty pound bonus. ‘If there’s ever owt you need, you come and see me. I appreciate someone who does a good, fast job.’
Now was the time to see if he’d meant it.
‘Come in,’ Smith said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
They settled at the kitchen table. Smith moved aside a pile of papers covered with sketches for some component and put down a plate of biscuits. He might have looked frail but Ted Smith was a powerful man. His name opened every door in the Civic Hall; he knew everyone important in Leeds and plenty down in London. He poured the tea, nibbled on a digestive and said, ‘It must be summat important.’ He nodded at Markham’s left hand. ‘Anything to do with those?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you need?’
Markham didn’t hesitate.
‘Access to people on the council.’
Smith looked thoughtful. He pulled a pipe from the pocket of his cardigan and lit it, puffing until he was satisfied that it was drawing properly.
‘Councillors or them as really run things?’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘A big one, lad.’ He smiled. ‘Councillors come and go. But they’re not the ones who get things done. It’s mostly the folk as run different departments as have the power. Tell me something.’
‘What?’
‘Do you know who your councillor is?’
‘No,’ Markham admitted.
Smith pointed with the pipe stem.
‘See, that’s what I mean. Most people couldn’t even tell you who was Lord Mayor.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Need to keep your finger on the pulse. What happens here is as important as what those buggers in Whitehall are doing. So who do you need to talk to?’
‘Someone in licensing and someone in planning,’ Markham said. ‘People with influence.’
Smith nodded.
‘I know just who you need.’ He puffed on the pipe for a few more seconds. ‘How powerful is the person you’re up against?’
Markham laughed. Ted Smith had always been a perceptive man.
‘Very. He killed someone but I can’t prove it.’
‘That murder in the newspapers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Talked to the police?’
‘They say he’s clean.’
‘Aye, well, most coppers share a single brain cell. Let me ring a few people. You’ll hear in the morning. That do you?’
‘Thank you.’
Smith waved away the gratitude.
‘It’s nowt. From the look of you, you’re still going to need plenty of luck.’
‘Very likely.’
‘If there’s anything else I can do to help, make sure you let me know.’
‘I will.’
‘I mean it, Daniel. You saved me a lot of money and
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