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.And my life might be a little simpler.’It was delivered in a matter-of-fact tone, a passing thought.‘Is that another threat?’Carter grinned.‘Why would I threaten when I can promise, Mr Markham.After all, who’d miss you? There’s no family, only that girlfriend of yours.’‘I could go to the police.They’d look for you if anything happened.’ Even as he said it he knew he was wasting his breath.Carter would keep himself well covered.‘Be my guest.But if I were you I’d keep looking over my shoulder from now on.’ At the door he turned.‘I believe whatever business you and I ever had is done.Goodbye, Mr Markham.’***For a while he simply sat and smoked.Murder.Nothing more or less.And casual, as if it was nothing at all.He felt dazed, as if someone had knocked him out and he was just coming to, trying to find his bearings.He bobbed between the crowds on Briggate like flotsam, pushed this way and that.Carter was no stranger to murder.It had been part of his job.He’d been forced out of the secret service for it.He’d arranged the death of Freddie Hart.Another body wouldn’t mean too much to him.The end would justify the means.By the time he reached the office he felt bruised and battered, his thoughts still muddled.He sat for a long time, letting the afternoon pass.The sounds of traffic and pedestrians came through the window.Finally he locked up and drove the two short miles to Headingley.He knew where to find Baker.The man loved his routines and rituals.He always finished his week with a drink in the Skyrack before heading home to his house in Burley.He was there, leaning against the bar, still wearing his raincoat and hat, talking intently with an older man who had the bearing of an ex-copper.Markham ordered his orange squash and waited for Baker to spot him.Five minutes later the detective ambled over, a pipe balanced in his mouth, a glass of bitter in his thick hand.There was no friendliness in his eyes.‘If you’ve come to confess to something I’ll be at the station on Monday morning.’ He drained the glass.‘Since you’re taking up my time you can put another in there.’ Baker signalled to the barman and a pint appeared.‘What do you know about David Carter?’The man took a slow drink and wiped his moustache.‘The one who wants to buy Hart Ford.’‘Yes.’‘Not that much.Why?’Markham took a deep breath.‘He’s said he’s going to kill me.’He didn’t want to confide in Baker but he knew he had no choice.The sergeant was the only one who could help him, the only one he could trust.Broken fingers, someone going after his bank account, the possibility of jail: he could deal with those alone.But a death threat … he needed help.‘Can’t say as I blame him.I’ve felt like doing that often enough myself.What did you do, bugger up his marriage?’‘I know he’s behind Freddie Hart’s murder.’Suddenly Baker was all attention.‘Go on, lad.You’ve got something to tell me.But I already looked at him and he’s clean.’He explained some of it, careful to omit his Webley from the tale.‘That’s all you’ve got? Where’s your proof?’ Baker demanded when he was done.‘He wants Hart Ford.Ask Joanna Hart.He’s been pressing her to sell.And his offer is very low.’‘So why’s he going to kill you?’‘He wants me to persuade Mrs Hart to sell.I told him I won’t.’‘Did he do that?’ Baker gazed at the fingers and Markham nodded.‘What does he have on you?’‘Nothing.’ It was true, more or less.The detective stayed silent for a long time, puffing on his pipe and thinking.‘You’re not telling me everything, lad.What I want to know is why you’re coming to me now.You were eager enough to handle it all yourself before.’‘He hadn’t threatened to kill me then.If it happens then you’ll know where to look.’‘I don’t want any more murders on my patch.’‘Don’t you believe me?’ Markham asked in exasperation.‘I’m sure it’s right enough,’ Baker said
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