grief. I’ve not forgotten that.’ He stood. ‘Wait here a minute.’
He disappeared and Markham looked around the room while he was alone. A small refrigerator stood in the corner, next to the larder, and there was a new gas cooker. All mod cons, but Ted Smith was a man who welcomed progress: it had been his business, and from the drawings on the table he hadn’t retired yet.
Smith returned with a sealed envelope.
‘Take that. You might find it useful.’
Markham looked at him quizzically but slipped it into his inside pocket.
‘Thank you, Mr Smith. I mean it.’
‘Just do me one favour, lad. When it’s over, come out and tell me about it. I don’t get to live much these days.’
‘I promise.’
***
The telephone bell shrilled at exactly five minutes past nine.
‘Mr Markham?’
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘I’m John Hay. I’m the clerk to the licensing committee. Mr Smith asked me to give you a ring.’
Markham smiled. Ted Smith’s name conjured up people eager to help.
‘There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. It’s delicate.’
‘We’d better meet, then,’ Hay said cautiously. ‘About noon at Whitelocks? It’s far enough from the Civic Hall for us not to be disturbed.’
Or seen together, Markham thought. ‘That would be fine. How will I know you?’
‘My teeth,’ the man replied with a small, self-conscious laugh. ‘Honestly, you’ll know.’
‘Then I’ll see you there.’
***
Ten minutes later the phone rang again.
‘I’m looking for Daniel Markham.’ It was a woman’s voice, calm and assured.
‘That’s me.’
‘Oh good. I’ve been talking to Ted Smith. He asked me to ring you. I’m Carol Kingston.’
‘With the planning committee?’
‘I’m a secretary there.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I’m the one who handles all the applications and complaints.’
Smith had promised him the ones who really ran things.
‘There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about.’
‘I imagined that from what Ted said,’ she said with amusement. ‘Look, why don’t we meet later? How about one o’clock outside the entrance to Marshall and Snelgrove?’
That would give him plenty of time to talk to Hay.
‘Perfect,’ he agreed.
He took out the envelope Smith had given him. He’d slit it open the night before, astonished to see ten twenty-pound notes inside. Nothing had been said, but he knew what it was – money to grease palms, to make the system work. Money talked; this amount of money only needed to whisper. And right now, with no cash in the bank, it was a godsend.
***
As soon as he walked into Whitelock’s he understood what Hay meant about the teeth. They protruded enough to make him look like a horse. He was standing by himself at the end of the polished bar, a half pint of beer in front of him. The pub was busy, high murmurs of conversation and laughter filling the air. A few men in suits stood around, but most of the customers wore donkey jackets and caps.
‘Mr Hay,’ he said. ‘I’m Dan Markham.’
The man smiled briefly and nodded as a table was vacated.
‘Let’s sit there.’
Once they were settled, Hay was all business. His gaze moved around nervously for a moment, then he said, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like some questions asked about a couple of licences.’
‘I see.’ He turned the glass and took a swift drink. ‘Which ones?’
‘The Kit Kat Club on Wellington Street. And the Bass Note up on Merrion Street.’ The two clubs that Carter owned.
‘What do you want?’
‘Ideally? Their licences revoked for a few days.’
‘It’s possible.’ Hay nodded, and the action made him look even more equine. He gazed at nothing, thinking. ‘Suspending the licences would be difficult. A couple of raids and regular checks would be easier.’
Markham took two of the twenty-pound notes from his pocket, folded them and slid them across the table.
‘Would that help?’
‘It would make a difference,’ he
He disappeared and Markham looked around the room while he was alone. A small refrigerator stood in the corner, next to the larder, and there was a new gas cooker. All mod cons, but Ted Smith was a man who welcomed progress: it had been his business, and from the drawings on the table he hadn’t retired yet.
Smith returned with a sealed envelope.
‘Take that. You might find it useful.’
Markham looked at him quizzically but slipped it into his inside pocket.
‘Thank you, Mr Smith. I mean it.’
‘Just do me one favour, lad. When it’s over, come out and tell me about it. I don’t get to live much these days.’
‘I promise.’
***
The telephone bell shrilled at exactly five minutes past nine.
‘Mr Markham?’
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘I’m John Hay. I’m the clerk to the licensing committee. Mr Smith asked me to give you a ring.’
Markham smiled. Ted Smith’s name conjured up people eager to help.
‘There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. It’s delicate.’
‘We’d better meet, then,’ Hay said cautiously. ‘About noon at Whitelocks? It’s far enough from the Civic Hall for us not to be disturbed.’
Or seen together, Markham thought. ‘That would be fine. How will I know you?’
‘My teeth,’ the man replied with a small, self-conscious laugh. ‘Honestly, you’ll know.’
‘Then I’ll see you there.’
***
Ten minutes later the phone rang again.
‘I’m looking for Daniel Markham.’ It was a woman’s voice, calm and assured.
‘That’s me.’
‘Oh good. I’ve been talking to Ted Smith. He asked me to ring you. I’m Carol Kingston.’
‘With the planning committee?’
‘I’m a secretary there.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I’m the one who handles all the applications and complaints.’
Smith had promised him the ones who really ran things.
‘There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about.’
‘I imagined that from what Ted said,’ she said with amusement. ‘Look, why don’t we meet later? How about one o’clock outside the entrance to Marshall and Snelgrove?’
That would give him plenty of time to talk to Hay.
‘Perfect,’ he agreed.
He took out the envelope Smith had given him. He’d slit it open the night before, astonished to see ten twenty-pound notes inside. Nothing had been said, but he knew what it was – money to grease palms, to make the system work. Money talked; this amount of money only needed to whisper. And right now, with no cash in the bank, it was a godsend.
***
As soon as he walked into Whitelock’s he understood what Hay meant about the teeth. They protruded enough to make him look like a horse. He was standing by himself at the end of the polished bar, a half pint of beer in front of him. The pub was busy, high murmurs of conversation and laughter filling the air. A few men in suits stood around, but most of the customers wore donkey jackets and caps.
‘Mr Hay,’ he said. ‘I’m Dan Markham.’
The man smiled briefly and nodded as a table was vacated.
‘Let’s sit there.’
Once they were settled, Hay was all business. His gaze moved around nervously for a moment, then he said, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like some questions asked about a couple of licences.’
‘I see.’ He turned the glass and took a swift drink. ‘Which ones?’
‘The Kit Kat Club on Wellington Street. And the Bass Note up on Merrion Street.’ The two clubs that Carter owned.
‘What do you want?’
‘Ideally? Their licences revoked for a few days.’
‘It’s possible.’ Hay nodded, and the action made him look even more equine. He gazed at nothing, thinking. ‘Suspending the licences would be difficult. A couple of raids and regular checks would be easier.’
Markham took two of the twenty-pound notes from his pocket, folded them and slid them across the table.
‘Would that help?’
‘It would make a difference,’ he
Similar Books
