Murder on the Cathedral Express (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 9)

by P. J. Thurbin

  “Professor Chalmers. Ralph. Good to see you,” Pradeep said, smiling as he held out his hand to Ralph. “We’ll go straight out if that’s okay with you. We can chat over a beer.”

  “I admit I could do with a bite to eat,” Ralph said as the men shook hands.

  “I’ll be out until two, Susan,” Pradeep called across to the smiling receptionist as he helped Ralph with his overcoat before he put his on. “Let Jackie know if anyone needs to contact me urgently and she can call me on my mobile.”

  “It’s getting bloody cold out there,” he said to Ralph as he held the door. “How’re things going at Kingston, anyhow?” He clapped Ralph on the shoulder and led the way out into the busy street without waiting for a response.

  Ralph had known Pradeep for several years now and recognised the humour and bonhomie that was his hall-mark. Just turned 30, beige camel hair overcoat, white open necked shirt, expensive black gabardine trousers and the obligatory winkle picker, black shoes. He exhibited all the swagger and confidence that came from having idled away four years at Cambridge studying Classics. HIs wealthy Anglo-Indian parents had given him every opportunity to succeed. They had managed to get him into Eton where he had been a star pupil. He was by all accounts both talented and likeable. But Pradeep was also honest, and Ralph liked him.

  “I know you’re one of these fitness fanatics, Ralph so let’s stroll down to the Hawksmoor in Spitalfields. It’s just by Piccaddilly. The fresh air will sharpen our appetites, not that mine needs much help these days. Too many meetings and too much coffee. Not good for a chap.” He smiled and gave a mock bow as he stepped aside for two girls as they walked two abreast towards them.

  As they made their way towards Piccadilly, the two men talked about how the e-book phenomenon impacted on the book market. Pradeep held the view that the people who bought business and management books still preferred something to hold up on a train or on a plane or a tome for the coffee table at home or in their office. They still wanted something that they could sit up in bed with and extract a few more words of wisdom to apply the next day at work.

  Ralph was not convinced that carrying around a book that weighed 3 or 4 pounds was still popular. Nowadays the best gurus at Harvard and Stanford and other lecturers and writers from around the world were available at the touch of the screen on an Ipad or laptop. In his view, that was what most busy executives wanted. But he had not come there to convince Pradeep of anything. He simply wanted to explore what his editor had in mind, and enjoy lunch with someone he admired.

  “Let’s have your coat, Ralph. I’ll just hang them on a peg and get some drinks while you grab a table. That chap over there.” He pointed towards a crowd. “Big fellow in need of a shave. Just let him know you’re with me. Best bitter for you, if I remember correctly.” Pradeep disappeared off in the direction of the bar as the man with the five o’clock shadow showed Ralph to a corner booth.

  “I ordered the Haddock, chips and mushy peas for both of us. They do a great job here. I hope that’s okay with you?”

  Ralph smiled inwardly. Pradeep was so driven that he was always high on adrenaline. No wonder he looked like someone who worked out every day, he mused. He knew for a fact that the nearest Pradeep came to a work out was when he checked his emails or sent a text message.

  “I know you like to watch your calories Ralph, and it’s a bit out of season, but I couldn’t resist ordering Eton mess for dessert.”

  “No problem. I enjoy a nice schoolboy pudding sometime myself. But I’ve never actually know what’s in it.”

  “To be honest, neither do I, although we had it often enough when I was in school there; Strawberries, meringue, cream and shortbread.” He laughed and waved to a group across the room who waved back. Pradeep was definitely an ace wheeler dealer, Ralph mused.

  Over lunch Ralph managed to get Pradeep to slow down and asked a few questions about where he saw his future.

  “How much longer do you see yourself at the FT?” He asked.

  “It’s hard to say, Ralph. So far they’ve given me a free hand; scope to do what I think’s best. Well, to be honest, I and the chaps that work for me do what we want. We take pride in the fact that we’re experts in our fields. My people joined because they have a talent, a personal drive and I just tell them to go for it.”

  “But surely the company have a strategic plan. They must have an agenda.”

  Pradeep smiled.

  “There probably is, but that’s not what we come to work for. If we had to do someone else’s bidding, then we’d just be workers. We have our pride and that makes for winners. That’s one thing they taught us at Eton. Oh and how to take a kick up the bum and still turn up the next day smiling.”

  “What happens if you fail to meet the organisation’s targets?”

  “Then we move on. Find somewhere where we can do our own thing. So far we’re doing well. That brings me to why I wanted to talk to you, Ralph.”

  “What? Are my sales down?”

  “Nothing of the sort, old chap. Your books are selling as well as expected. No one is going to make a fortune, but they fill a gap in our portfolio and push our competitors to work harder. No I want you to hit a new market. As I hinted on the phone, we want you to become high profile. Our man in the media.”

  “Are you saying that you envisage me as the publishing industry’s answer to Top Gear’s Jeremy Clarkson?”

  “Now you’re talking, Ralph,” Pradeep laughed at the look that flashed across Ralph’s face. “But seriously, we want you to challenge the conventional wisdom in the same way that Malcolm Gladwell did a few years ago.”

  Ralph was well aware of Gladwell’s concepts as well as his book sales. His first big seller, Tipping Point, published some 14 years ago, was about new ideas and challenges to the conventional wisdom. Getting those ideas across relied on bringing on board influential people who had a strong compulsion to get the changes through. Then he had written David and Goliath – Underdogs, Misfits and the Art of Battling Giants, another best-seller. He had also written some novels. Ralph often wondered how Gladwell had the time and energy to push his ideas. He had come up against a lot of reaction and flak from the established academics. In Ralph’s mind they were probably more than a little jealous of his success.

  “You see, Ralph, Gladwell said that the ‘Tipping Point’ was that moment of crystallisation. We want you to come up with a novel idea that rivals that concept.”

  “So you see me as the man to help you climb back on your pedestal,” Ralph said laughing.

  “Well, that wouldn’t be such a bad symbiosis, now would it? You become the new management guru and I look down on the world from my lofty perch for having discovered you. But you’re right, Ralph. I can get carried away sometimes. But you do see what I’m getting at?”

  “Sure. And it’s a nice pipe dream.”

  “I’m hoping it’s a lot more than that. Surely all those years at Cambridge must have given you some basis for coming up with a novel idea.”

  “There’s always Thomas Becket.”

  “Where did that come from, Ralph?”

  “Well, some friends and I are taking the Cathedral Express from Victoria to Canterbury for a day out and a Carol Concert.”

  “Sounds interesting, but what has Becket to do with your producing a best-seller? And yes, I know the history. Pushed his friend the King too far and finished up stabbed to death on the Cathedral steps.”

  “It’s just the idea of challenging the status quo. It doesn’t always have a happy ending.”

  “Well, I suppose it might be a start, but historical links can be boring. Not to put too fine a point on it, we need to be contemporary, you know, carpe diem, so to speak. But just say you’ll give it a go and I’ll write out the contract. Then all you need to do is make a sales pitch to the team. The usual 1 minute test of your idea, then we’re in business. Sordid to talk money but £2000 on signing, £! 500 on publication which as you know we claw back at 3% from sales. Then 2
% royalty. We’d expect to sell 10,000 in the first year, maybe more.”

  “I’ll need to check my commitments before I can give you an answer,” Ralph said. He had no intentions of signing on to something until he had time to think it through.

  “If you’re pushed we could get a ghost writer. Just come up with the ideas and we’ll do the rest. It’s the norm now and you’d be shocked to hear who the big authors are that do it.”

  “Not my game, Pradeep. You should know that by now.”

  “Okay, Ralph. I know you like to be your own man. Just let me know, and I’ll put the wheels in motion. By Monday, then?”

  They chatted on for a few minutes until Pradeep said that he had to rush. They stood in the street and shivered against the bitter East wind as they flagged down their taxis.

  Ralph had to run for the train. He saw that Surbiton was the first stop on the Basingstoke train and sprinted for Platform 15 just in time to push through the barrier and dodge into the last carriage. The doors hissed and he was in the modern version of Dante’s Hell. He had grabbed a free copy of the Evening Standard at the station entrance. It gave him a good excuse to avoid having to look at his companions. Everyone seemed to be either eating, talking on their mobiles or reading their Ipads. Some eager workaholics bashed away at their lap tops. There was a persistent babble as people called home or chatted to the person next to them, completely ignoring the ‘Quiet Zone’ notice prominently displayed on the windows..

  The train clanked and swayed as it traversed the complex set of lines and switch points as it rapidly gathered speed. He made his way through the carriages pressing the green ‘open’ button at each door that connected the carriages. He attracted a lot of sneers and grunts from those old hands who just got on the train and then switched their minds to neutral. It was probably the best survival tactic. At last he saw a slight gap between a large lady and a diminutive girl who sat by the window and gave him a faint smile. Ralph guessed that he reminded her of her father and hence no threat. As he squeezed in he realised his mistake. Sitting directly opposite was a red-faced man talking loudly on a mobile while clutching a coffee, with its lid still firmly in place.

  “On the train, dear. Crowded as usual.” There was a slight pause as the man listened to whoever he had called ‘dear’. Katie often chided Ralph that the reason he was obsessed with people who spoke loudly was because of his tendency to whisper.

  “Be home in about an hour, dearest. Don’t wait supper as I ate at the gallery showing. Canapes and sandwiches.” There was a pause while the man listened. He tried to hold the phone under his chin while he struggled to take the lid off his coffee cup. “Yes dear. I do feel a bit tired. I managed to get a cup of coffee at Waterloo. It was pretty busy. You know lots of pushing and shoving.”

  Ralph wondered what titbit of domestic and work life the man was now about to reveal to the listening world. He wondered if this was what Graham Bell had intended when he made his great contribution to the world of communication. He tried to open his newspaper, but with the large lady on one side and the thin girl on the other, it was impossible. He had only his companions opposite to look at for the 18 minutes until he could get off at Surbiton. They had passed Wimbledon which was a flash of lights in the reflections through the windows. Only 10 more minutes and he would be out in the fresh air.

  He winced at the thought of all those germs as peopled started to cough. The red-faced man wore a blue and white striped shirt, a yellow bow tie, dark brown corduroy jacket and an overcoat, thrown open in the heat of the carriage. Legs akimbo like some benign Buddhist priest, he clutched his plastic cup. Ralph noticed that the man was perspiring badly. Probably a few beers or some whiskies at Waterloo or at the gallery showing he had heard him tell ‘dearest’ about., Ralph thought. The man began to sway alarmingly from side to side as his companions, who had acted like human bookends, now stood up and began to make their way towards the exit. The train slowed as it entered the railway cutting that told the commuters that they were nearly home.

  “Surbiton next stop. Basingstoke only train. Please make sure to collect all your possessions before you leave the train.” The banal but in some way comforting announcement galvanised life into the majority of the passengers. Newspapers were discarded, mobiles put away and lap tops snapped shut. Scarves slung nonchalantly around their necks. Those going on to Basingstoke just glanced up as though to say ‘locals – we go all the way. This is our train.’ Suddenly the red faced man slumped forwards and his coffee-cup toppled onto the floor. The large lady shrieked. Ralph grabbed the man and tried to hold him up. He was quite a weight. Two young men leant across and helped him.

  “Let’s get him onto the platform. He probably just needs some fresh air,” said one of them.

  “He might be going to Basingstoke,” protested the large lady.

  “Not in his state,” Ralph muttered to his two helpmates as they half pulled and half carried the man through the door and onto the wet and now crowded platform.

  “Clear away. Stand back,” shouted the railway guard.

  “Someone call for an ambulance,” Ralph shouted. ”This man might have had a heart attack.” He hoped that would get people’s attention. Otherwise they would have passed by without a glance in their hurry to get home.

  Within minutes the police and an ambulance crew arrived. Ralph watched as they bent over the man and administered a jab before they placed an oxygen mask over his face. The crowd dispersed, and the train, with a policeman on board, pulled out. Ralph waited. The crew stretchered the man into the waiting ambulance and a young policewoman wearing one of those yellow day-glow jackets asked Ralph if he was a friend. Ralph explained what had happened and she took his name and address.

  He walked up the now deserted platform as the through train roared past. Everything was back to normal. It was as though nothing had happened to disturb a scene that was played out 5 nights a week at the Surbiton commuter station.

  “Some old bloke. Fell right off the stupid train soon as the doors opened. Must’ve been drunk. My friend saw it,” shrieked a gaggle of youths as they brushed past a now decidedly tired Ralph Chalmers.

  Life was a bummer. He decided to walk home and hoped that it would clear his head. Not knowing why, he stopped in at the Kentucky Fried Chicken take-away.

  Back at his apartment he phoned Katie to tell her about his day. They swapped stories and agreed that December could be a grim month for a number of reasons. But as always, Katie managed to boost his spirits.

  “You need to get out of that blue funk, Ralph. Don’t forget, we have our outing to Canterbury on the Cathedral Express with the gang in a few days.”

  He knew she was right. Katie was still doing the obligatory party rounds at UCL and hoped that she would not run into too many young bloods. He smiled at the thought that he might be jealous.

  He decided against the fried chicken he had bought on impulse at the KFC takeaway on the way home from the station. It had smelled good, but he had always regretted eating it afterwards. He handed the unopened container to a vagrant sitting on the steps outside the YMCA who seemed happy enough to have a hot meal.

  Ralph sat in his favourite leather armchair and listened to some Mozart on the radio as he ate a ham sandwich and drank a bottle of Beck’s. Without Katie it was all very quiet, he mused and wondered if he really had become a recluse, apart from his early morning runs and occasional visits to the Black Lion pub. Seeing that man collapse on the train must have made him feel a bit down, he reflected. He decided that what he needed was an early night and a couple of days at the gym that week for a workout and a swim. He still needed to knock 5 minutes off his swim if he expected to finish in the top ten in the Tin Man next summer in Rome.

  ______________________

  Chapter 3

  In spite of it being his day off, Inspector Linham was on call. He and his wife had just been discussing which of the family they owed a visit over Christmas. The festive season was turning into a
nightmare.

  His mobile rang. All headquarters could tell him was that a passenger on the London-Basingstoke train had been found dead on Platform 3 at Surbiton Station. The ambulance crew had pronounced the man dead when they arrived. As regulations dictated, they had alerted the police response team who had cordoned off the area. As each subsequent train disgorged floods of commuters, people had tried to duck under the blue and white tape that they had strung across the dark and puddle covered platform and unsympathetically went the long way round when stopped by the police who were already on site.

  Linham shouted at the hands-free as Sergeant Wilson threaded the car through the commuter traffic. Linham wanted trains diverted to a different platform, preferably to a different station altogether. That was not possible with trains entering the station every 3 to 5 minutes on four lines. Rush hour on such a busy line had a life of its own.

  “You’re like King Canute trying to turn the tide, Sir.” Seeing the cloud that descended on the Inspector’s face at his remark, Wilson realised that he would likely be working late shifts for the next week. They pulled onto the station concourse where a constable waved them through and advised them that the incident had occurred on Platform 3. They pushed their way through the flood of people coming up the stairs and made their way to the end of the platform. Having talked to the police officer who was first on the scene as well as the railway police, Linham stood back and ran over the scenario in his mind. He had done this hundreds of times in his 30 years on the force: Yes, it could have been nothing more sinister than a straight forward heart attack. The man had been ill on the train from Waterloo, helped onto the platform and died before the ambulance crew could administer any life-saving treatment. Linham was unhappy with the police doctor who had checked the body. His old friend Doctor Meacham was on leave and the substitute, at least in Linham’s view, was still wet behind the ears. Although that had been an aside, made quietly to his Sergeant. Eventually he agreed that the body could be moved, but he felt uneasy about the whole thing.