Leeming took an age to find the right place. Language was the problem. Unable to translate the thick Glaswegian accents of the people whose advice he sought, he didn’t know where to go. He learnt that there was more than one Marigold Street in the city and several pubs called The Stag. When he finally stumbled on the place he was after, he collapsed into a chair and ordered a pint of beer and a meat pie. Sustenance came before detection. Besides, he decided, he wanted to settle in before he began asking questions. That had been his mistake at the pub near the railway station. He’d shown his hand too early and disclosed his identity. He wouldn’t mention that he was a detective this time. His enquiries needed to be more casual.
As he ate his pie and washed it down with sips of beer, he thought about Margaret Paterson. Compassion welled up in him. When she’d offered him her body, she’d done so with the clumsiness and diffidence of someone who’d never done such a thing before. She’d been reacting to force of circumstance. What had driven her to live in the Gorbals was her husband’s addiction to gambling. Leeming was sitting in the very place where, reportedly, Paterson had lost a lot of money. Yet the visitor could see no sign of any card games or other form of gambling. It looked like any other pub, a large room furnished with tables and chairs at which patrons could sit. Several were simply doing what Leeming himself was doing, eating, drinking and minding their own business. Others were engaged in lively discussions. Nobody gave him a second glance.
When he finished his meal and emptied his tankard, he drifted across to the bar. He was in luck. Instead of having to interpret what he felt was an alien tongue, he could talk in his own language. The landlord hailed from Devon and his voice had a pleasing West Country burr. It enabled Leeming to open the conversation.
‘You sound as if you’re a long way from home,’ he said.
‘I am,’ returned the other. ‘I married a girl from Dundee. We decided to move there but we only got as far as Glasgow. What about you, sir?’
‘Oh, I’m just a visitor. But you must like it here.’
‘It’s a big city. It’s got everything we want.’
The landlord was a short, barrel-chested man in his forties. Though he was smiling benignly, he was already harbouring suspicions about Leeming.
‘Where are you from?’ he asked.
‘I live in London.’
‘What brings you here?’
‘I’ve always wanted to come to Scotland,’ lied Leeming, ‘and take the opportunity of looking up a few old friends. In fact, that’s why I popped in here. I was told that one of them used to come here quite often.’
‘Oh – and who might that be, sir?’
‘Lackey Paterson.’
The landlord pursed his lips. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘But he came here regularly.’
‘So do lots of other people. There’ll be a hundred or more in here this evening. I can’t keep track of all their names. We had a Will Paterson but we’ve not seen him for months. What does this other man look like?’
As he tried to describe him, Leeming realised that he was giving himself away, claiming to be a friend of someone whom he’d never met and was therefore unable to describe in convincing detail. He clutched at a defining characteristic.
‘Lackey was very fond of a game of cards,’ he said.
‘Is that so?’ replied the landlord, now on the defensive.
‘He came here to play. You must have a room set aside for that.’
‘You’re mistaken, sir. I don’t allow gambling in here. It leads to fights.’
‘I’m certain that this was the place.’ Leeming looked upwards. ‘Do you have any accommodation here?’
‘Were you looking for somewhere to stay?’
‘I was just wondering if, by chance, Lackey Paterson had taken a room.’
‘Don’t you have an address for him, sir? It seems very strange that you’d come such a long distance to see someone you didn’t know how to find.’
‘I’ve been to his address,’ explained Leeming, ‘but it seems that he’s left his wife. It was she who gave me the name of this place.’
‘Well, he’s not here,’ said the landlord, bluntly. ‘I can’t help you.’
Leeming knew that the man was holding something back and he cursed himself for being caught out so easily. Since he could get nothing out of the landlord, he decided that the sensible thing to do was to beat a retreat and keep an eye on the place from a safe distance. If Lackey Paterson was not already there, he might come later. It was a possibility in which it was worth investing time.
Although he was a long way away, Edward Tallis nevertheless insisted on having regular reports about the progress that his detectives were making in Scotland. He needed proof that sending them there was necessary. Colbeck therefore penned an account carefully tailored to give the impression that they were making headway. He did, however, warn that the investigation still had some way to run. It was enough to placate the superintendent. In the same mailbag would be a letter to Madeleine. That, too, contained an outline description of the case. Colbeck missed her badly so early in the marriage. Being apart from her for the first time let him see just how much he’d gained in making her his wife. It had given his life more stability, more purpose and an unlimited stock of love on which to draw.
Yet as soon as he’d finished his letter to her, Colbeck dismissed Madeleine from his consciousness. He needed to concentrate on the case in hand. He was making use of the office that the general manager had put at his disposal at the Caledonian headquarters. It was small and nondescript but more than adequate. The only problem was that John Mudie kept interrupting him to offer his services. Colbeck turned him politely away each time. He was disappointed that Leeming hadn’t returned with news of Lackey Paterson but knew that the sergeant wouldn’t abandon the hunt until he had something to report.
As he reviewed the case, the unappealing countenance of Rory McTurk rose up before him. Though he disliked the man, Colbeck accepted that he was not without ability. If the railway policeman had, in fact, acquired some crucial evidence, he was duty-bound to pass it on to Inspector Rae as well as to Colbeck. Yet no word had come. Rae was certain that McTurk knew something of import. It was time for Colbeck to confront the man. At last having something for John Mudie to do, he asked him to locate the bearded superintendent. Mudie was delighted to be given the task and bounded out of the building. Within half an hour, he was back again.
‘He’s not at work, Inspector Colbeck,’ he said, apologetically. ‘It seems that Superintendent McTurk has taken the day off.’
McTurk was sorry to remove his uniform. It gave him a sense of status. But he needed to move about the city with some anonymity. Accordingly he wore a suit and a hat. The easiest way to track down the two brothers would be to involve the police. They would have the resources to mount a proper search. But it would allow them to take credit for something that McTurk wanted to keep for himself. His reasoning was simple. If the two men who stayed the night at the wayside inn had indeed been responsible for the train crash, they were unlikely to be raw newcomers to the world of crime. They’d be hired for their experience and their expertise. It was more than possible therefore that they were known to the police. Even if they hadn’t been convicted, they’d have brushed against the forces of law and order.
That belief took McTurk off to visit his uncle, Toby, a grizzled veteran in his sixties who was retired from the Glasgow police and who spent his days reminiscing about what he considered to be his many triumphs in uniform. They met at the uncle’s house. Though the older man looked frail and had a nasty cough, his faculties were still intact. After an exchange of pleasantries, McTurk asked him how good his memory was. His uncle insisted that he recalled every villain with whom he ever dealt. In fact, he was renowned for his encyclopaedic memory.
‘Then let me see if you remember two brothers,’ said McTurk. ‘I don’t know their surnames but they’re called Ewen and Duncan. They’d be no older
than thirty and they’d be the kind of ruffians who’d do anything if there was money in it.’
He went on to describe the two men but his uncle soon stopped him. Unlike his nephew, his Glaswegian vowels hadn’t been softened by long years of living in England. He bared his few remaining teeth.
‘Ask me something really hard,’ he croaked.
McTurk was pleased. ‘You know who they are?’
‘I ken two brothers wi’ the names tha’ gi’ me.’
‘Who are they, Uncle Toby?’
‘Ewen and Duncan Usher – I arrested the bastards for filching apples from a greengrocer’s. It was all o’ fifteen years ago. Even at tha’ age, they were vicious little brutes.’ He looked at his visitor. ‘Why do ye want ’em, Rory? Have they been stealing things from the railway?’
‘Yes,’ replied McTurk, ‘something like that.’
Jamie Farr was in a quandary. Needing to go to Glasgow, he was not at all sure how to get there. His first instinct was to walk but that meant tramping over sixty miles. It was an impossible distance. Riding there on a horse was also out of the question. Farr was a poor horseman and, in any case, had no access to a mount. A horse would never get him there in one journey. He’d have to stay overnight and press on the next day. That would be asking too much of his father, keeping an eye on his son’s flock. Only one mode of transport was viable and that was the one he hated. Ironically – if he could overcome his prejudices – it could actually solve his problem. A train from Wamphray would take him all the way to Glasgow.
After much deliberation, he agreed to compromise. He was grateful that he’d done so because the stationmaster was very helpful. He told the shepherd that the best way to find Superintendent McTurk was to go to the headquarters of the Caledonian Railway. He even provided him with an address. Yet the information didn’t make him look more favourably on the railway. He still remembered the way that some of his flock had been crushed to death under the wheels of a train. Their murder had been unforgivable. He’d rejoiced in the train crash which had halted traffic on the line close to him and felt that he had a kinship with those who caused it. Faced with the prospect of gaining a huge reward, however, he was ready to trade evidence that would lead to their arrest. Bella Drew came first.
As the train came into the station, he stepped back apprehensively. Belching smoke and hissing steam, the engine frightened him. The carriages swayed and rattled alarmingly. He feared for his safety. Yet he had to go through with it. Having told Bella where he had to go, he couldn’t draw back now. Climbing into a carriage with trepidation, he selected a seat and perched on the very edge of it, back upright and body tense. When the train set off again, he was clenching his teeth. It was not until they were halfway there that he began to relax. While he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the journey, it no longer troubled him so much. He was able to think for the first time about what he had to do when he reached his destination.
Farr was lost in Glasgow. Wearing his shepherd’s smock and a look of total bewilderment, he didn’t know where to turn. There were so many people and such pulsating noise. Having spent all his life on lonely hillsides, he felt completely at sea in the maelstrom of a big city. It was another stationmaster who came to his rescue. When he heard what Farr wanted, he gave him instructions. The shepherd was able to find his way to the building he was after. At first nobody believed his story and they tried to turn him away but he threatened to stay at the door indefinitely until he was allowed to see Superintendent McTurk. In the end, it was John Mudie who sensed that the lad had something of importance to say. Inviting him in, he took Farr along to the office occupied by Colbeck. The shepherd was left alone with the Railway Detective. Facing the man in charge of the investigation, Farr was at first tongue-tied.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ invited Colbeck with a smile. ‘There’s no rush. Speak when you’re ready and not before.’
Farr lowered himself onto a chair. ‘Aye, sir. Thank ye.’
‘If you’ve come all this way, it must be important.’
‘It is. I need to talk to the p’liceman wi’ the black beard?’
‘Do you mean Superintendent McTurk?’
‘Aye, sir, that’s the mahn.’
‘What business do you have with the superintendent?’
In response to Colbeck’s genuine interest in what he had to say, Farr’s nervousness slowly ebbed away. He explained about the meeting he’d had with McTurk and repeated the evidence he’d given earlier. Colbeck immediately saw a connection between the information and McTurk’s absence from work. The new evidence had the ring of truth. Straying outside the boundary of his duties, the railway policeman was apparently acting upon it.
‘He told me I’d no’ get the money till they were behind bars,’ said Farr.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ agreed Colbeck.
‘But I’d a feelin’ he’d keep the reward for hi’self.’
‘Oh, he won’t be allowed to do that, I promise you. If what you’ve told me does lead to the conviction of those responsible for that crash, then the reward should rightly come to you. We’ve had lots of people offering us information,’ said Colbeck, ‘but you’re the first one who’s been completely honest.’
‘I only told ye what I saw, sir. I’ve guid eyesight.’
‘I’m grateful for that. Now, then, let me take down the details of how to find you.’ He reached for a notebook and pencil. ‘I daresay that coming to Glasgow must have been a nightmare to someone like you.’
‘Aye, sir. It’s like a madhoose.’
‘Then I’ll send you straight back to the serenity of the countryside.’
Colbeck made a note of his name and address then shook his hand in gratitude. Farr was reassured. Unlike McTurk, he felt, the man could be trusted. He hadn’t tried to hassle the shepherd or to make false promises. About to leave, Farr turned to him.
‘Will you tell Superintendent McTurk that I came here?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Colbeck with a meaningful glint. ‘The superintendent and I will be having a very long talk.’
Victor Leeming had been there for hours now and his legs were aching. He’d shifted his position at regular intervals so that he could keep The Stag under observation from different angles. People came and left the pub but none of them fitted the description he had of Lackey Paterson. The landlord had recognised the name. There was no doubt about that. Why was he shielding the man? And why did he deny that no card games took place under his roof when Paterson’s wife had called it a gambling den? Lamps were lit in an upstairs room. Leeming wondered if that was where Paterson had gambled away so much of his wages. Some of it had also gone on drink. Very little of the money seemed to have found its way to Margaret Paterson. It was no wonder that she was so embittered.
Light was slowly being drained out of the sky, enabling him to lurk in the shadows. The Stag was doing brisk business and, even from a distance, he could hear the sounds of jollity. His vigil eventually bore fruit. A man walked past, his face momentarily illumined by a street lamp. In every particular, he fitted the description Leeming had of Lackey Paterson. The sergeant tensed himself for action. He watched the man go into The Stag with the air of an habitué of the place. Leeming walked slowly towards the pub. Before he got close to it, however, he saw the man put his head outside the door to look in both directions. When he caught sight of Leeming, he took to his heels and raced off down the street. The detective went after him.
It was a hectic chase. What gave Leeming extra speed was the conviction that he’d at last found Paterson. Apparently, the man had come to the pub, been warned by the landlord that someone was after him and decided to run for cover. Leeming reasoned that, if he had nothing to hide, he’d have no reason to bolt from a stranger. Knowing the area, his quarry was able to take him on a twisting journey through the backstreets. Their hasty footsteps echoed in the gloom. Leeming got closer and closer, calling on all his reserves of strength and lung power. Breathing heavily,
the man ahead of him was slowing down and clutching at his side. Unable to outrun the pursuit, he turned to face Leeming and reached inside his coat for a knife. He had no time to use it. Diving at him with full force, Leeming knocked him to the ground and slammed his head against the hard pavement. The knife rolled into the gutter.
‘Got you!’ gasped Leeming with a grin of triumph.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
McTurk was jubilant. Thanks to his uncle, he’d identified the two men he was after and, after a diligent search, found out where they lived. At that point, he was forced to accept that he’d be no match for two strong young men. They would be dangerous. If they were ruthless enough to commit such a terrible crime, they surely wouldn’t surrender without a fight. And they might well be armed. He needed help and – more important, in his mind – he needed his uniform. That always instilled confidence in him. As a railway policeman, his powers were circumscribed and he always yearned to go beyond them. This was his opportunity. He could secure two arrests, solve a heinous crime and win plaudits from the press. What he’d savour most was the moment when Nairn Craig handed over four hundred pounds. A little of it would be passed on to his uncle. None of it would ever reach Jamie Farr.
He had no qualms about casting the shepherd aside. The youth had provided vital evidence but, on his own, he’d never have been able to make proper use of it. McTurk had done the detective work alone and that, in his opinion, entitled him to be the sole recipient of the reward. Farr would be kept in complete ignorance, tending his flock and waiting in vain for word from the railway policeman. He’d never know the true outcome. In any case, McTurk believed, a dim-witted country lad didn’t deserve the money. He’d have no idea what to do with it. McTurk, however, knew exactly how to put it to good use. It would transform his life and raise his expectations. All that he had to do was to make two arrests and he’d achieve instant fame.
Peril on the Royal Train Page 11
