The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park

by Richard Whittle

  ‘You really do not know me, do you? You do not remember me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Herr Major. I know no Luftwaffe men.’

  The major takes a silver case from his pocket. ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘I smoke a pipe, Herr Major.’

  ‘Not while I’m here you don’t.’

  ‘No, Herr Major.’

  The man returns the silver case to his pocket, the cigarettes untouched.

  ‘Have you swum again in the Zweigkanal, Theodor?’

  Theo frowns. He has had enough. Maybe all Luftwaffe men are as strange as Göring, their leader. Is he in the company of madmen, madmen who construct meaningless sentences and use secret codes like in children’s games? Have you swum again in the Zweigkanal?

  Then Theo remembers. It starts with the eyes, their sharpness, their blueness. Eyes belonging not to a Luftwaffe major but to a boy he once knew.

  ‘I have swum in the Zweigkanal, Walter,’ he says slowly, his eyes again on the major’s. ‘But not since that day.’

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  SPARGO HAULED HIMSELF into the cathedral-like void. Watery daylight from the gash in the roof cut through ancient dust stirred up as he moved, dust that caught in his throat and nose and made him sneeze. As he expected, the main attic floor was not boarded over. The floor joists beneath his feet support the lath and plaster ceiling of the room below. Like in the smaller attic, one false step and his foot would go through it.

  He was right about the daylight. Though it wasn’t bright, once his eyes became accustomed to it he could see the whole attic. Apart from a large galvanized water tank sitting on timber beams at the other end of the void, the place was empty. No old suitcases, no lampshades or old paintings, no chairs.

  Beneath the hole in the roof was an even bigger hole in the attic floor. Roof slates, and the occasional block of stone that hadn’t made it down to the hall, lay scattered on the joists and laths. Fine, silvery streaks of rain drifted down through the gash in the roof. Lit from above, it seemed as if every raindrop had its own internal light.

  Stepping carefully he approached the hole. The closer he got the less safe he felt – until finally his feelings got the better of him and he backed away. The similarities between the attic and underground workings were uncanny, the dangers were similar: dark voids and deep drops. But in mines there is one big difference – the ground doesn’t bounce up and down when you walk.

  Using his lamp he probed the dark corners. In an attempt to see behind the water tank he stepped sideways and lit it with his lamp. It didn’t look safe. The beams it sat on sloped gently towards the hole and the whole assembly appeared, from where he stood, to be held in place by two water pipes fixed to its side.

  He was sure that if he trod carefully and kept well away from the hole, he would be able to reach the tank safely. It seemed to be the only place in the roof where something could be concealed, either behind it or under it.

  Getting to the tank meant skirting the hole; skirting the hole meant stepping on roof beams that sagged under his weight. He trod carefully, testing beams before putting all his weight on them. All went well until one of the beams, seemingly safe, twisted to one side as he stepped onto it. The water tank jerked, slipping off its base with an ominous hollow thud.

  By the time Spargo realised what was happening the tank was sliding towards the hole, picking up speed, skidding and grinding and dragging its pipes. Sure that if he stayed where he was the tank would miss him, he froze. Then, unexpectedly, one of the pipes snagged a roof beam and swung the tank towards him like a ball on a chain. As he threw himself sideways the tank and its pipes – flailing like tentacles – sliced across the place he’d been standing. For all of five seconds it teetered on the edge of the hole and then toppled, its pipes whipping the air as they smashed at the timbers, cracking more beams as the whole mess of steel tore through the floor. Then, finally, a deep hollow boom as the tank hit the hall floor.

  Spargo, safe from the tank, swam in the filth and clawed at the timbers. Under his weight the nails holding the thin wooden laths that supported the floor ripped away from the beams with a machine-gun-like chatter. Chunks of ceiling plaster broke away, fell to the hall floor and burst like small bombs. Had he not been standing astride a beam when the floor gave way he would have plunged to his death. Instead, when he lost his grip on everything, both feet went through the ceiling.

  Rain fell heavily through the hole in the roof. It fell on the unconscious figure of Spargo, no longer clinging to the beam that supported him but lying face down astride it with both legs through the hall ceiling. Aroused by the rain he came round slowly, tightening his fingers around a wooden beam he could feel but not see, clinging to it the way a shipwrecked sailor might cling to a spar. The intense pain in his groin came to him gradually, a pain the like of which he hadn’t experienced since his schooldays when he’d been kicked in the groin in the melees that passed as school sport. Though this was worse. Much worse.

  His legs, held firm by clusters of shattered laths as sharp as sharks’ teeth, had no feeling. Scared he no longer even had legs, he felt for them, found his left and then his right. Found something else too – the unmistakable, slippery feel of warm blood.

  Still face down, he tried lifting a leg. When it didn’t respond he tried lifting the other, managing to drag it up far enough to hook his foot over a beam. As he did so a tingling in his toes spread slowly through his body, pins and needles first and then vicious, knife-stab pains. Finally, crying with pain, he pulled the other leg free and crawled sideways, crab-like, until he was supported by several firm beams.

  At first he thought the flickering light that came from the hall was a rescuer, someone who had heard the tank fall, heard his cries and come to investigate. Encouraged, he called out. Hearing nothing but falling rain, he called out again. No longer able to stand he began a long crawl back to the extension, beam by beam, easing himself along as if crawling on shards of glass. Twice during his journey the pain overpowered him. Made him vomit.

  His slow and painful entrance to the hall was greeted not by rescuers with torches but by his very own hand lamp. Having survived the fall it lay on its back amongst rubble and dirt, its beam blocked now and again by breeze-blown, leafy weeds.

  His trousers were bloody; slivers of lath had shredded the fabric and torn into his skin. Cuts to his calves seeped blood. One cut, deeper than the rest, had a sliver of wood sticking from it and was bleeding profusely. Scared that if he passed out again he might bleed to death, he sat on a block of masonry and removed his shirt. He was about to rip it into bandages when he remembered the first aid kit in his car.

  As he bent down to retrieve his lamp its beam picked out the water tank, distorted and split by the fall. His eyes then focussed on something beyond it, a pyramid shape he hadn’t seen before. Holding the beam steady he limped towards it – not a pyramid but a box-shaped package about the size of a car battery. That it was heavy was obvious, One of its corners had embedded itself in the floorboards.

  Spargo stared down at it. Whatever it was, somebody had wrapped it in many layers of canvas and then bound it with wire. He attempted to crouch down to examine it more closely but the pain was too great. Reluctantly he returned to the kitchen, struggled out of the window and limped back to his car.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Theo barely recognises Walter Wolff. The resemblance to the boy he once knew ends at the eyes. A sickle-shaped scar like the first quarter of the moon crosses his cheek from his right ear to his chin. When Wolff was young he wore his hair long and now it is cropped short. He is around Theo’s height. Though he has bulked out, he is not overweight.

  Theo can’t avoid staring. His old friend’s father held a government post in the town where they lived. When Walter was fourteen his father was promoted and the family moved to Munich.

  ‘Have I changed so much, Kapitänleutnant, that you did not recognise me?’

  Theo notes t
he persisting formality.

  ‘It has been fifteen years.’

  ‘Surely more than fifteen?’

  ‘It only feels like more. Perhaps I didn’t expect the uniform. The last I heard was that you had moved to Munich with your parents. Also that you joined the Schutzstaffel.’

  ‘Then you were misinformed. As you rightly say, I moved to Munich. I joined the Hitlerjugend and later the Luftwaffe, not the SS. But enough of this, there will soon be time for such talk. You look tired. You have had a long journey.’

  ‘Only from Bremen.’

  ‘Careless talk, Kapitänleutnant!’

  ‘I apologise. I assumed you knew everything about me.’

  Wolff stands up, turns the chair and sits on it properly. He looks towards the briefcase on the bed and beckons to it, flicking his fingers.

  ‘Pass that to me.’

  Theo does as he is asked. Wolff takes from it a folder made of thin card. As if to refresh his memory he scans its pages.

  ‘Biscay. Saint Nazaire. Then Trondheim to Bremen, your last mission. What went wrong?’

  Theo swallows. Maybe Walter’s presence is a coincidence after all.

  ‘A Luftwaffe major knows these things?’

  Wolff flicks pages. Keeps his eyes on the papers.

  ‘All about you, yes, did you not just say that? I know you were a proficient chief engineer and that you are now an excellent U-boat commander. You are also a good German, despite being a little free with your tongue.’

  ‘Again, I apologise.’

  ‘Apologies are meaningless and pointless. I am not referring to your comments to me, I am speaking more generally. You spent last evening with recruits. I have been told you spoke very freely. Now answer my question. Your voyage. What went wrong?’

  ‘I have made my report.’

  ‘So I see. You were caught on the surface by a British bomber, a Wellington. Did your luck run out, would you say?’

  ‘I do not trust to luck.’

  ‘I do not trust to luck Herr Major!’

  ‘I do not trust to luck Herr Major!’

  ‘So, what went wrong?’

  ‘It is difficult to say, Herr Major. It was after midnight. I had surfaced to recharge my batteries. The sea was rough. The seaman on watch failed to hear the plane’s engines until it was upon us.’

  ‘And this seaman, how did you deal with him?’

  ‘It is there, in my report. Herr Major.’

  ‘There is nothing here about disciplining this man.’

  ‘There was nothing left of him to discipline. And very little left of my two gunners.’

  ‘Very well. So why are you here?’

  ‘Herr Major?’

  ‘I mean why are you in Berlin?’

  ‘I wish to visit my son. I told the Generalmajor.’

  ‘Really? If you told him that, then he should have told me. He is an old friend of mine. He was injured in France and now has a less taxing job in Potsdam. He is a very talented gentleman. He has been watching you from the day you disembarked.’

  Theo stays quiet. He finds that hard to believe.

  ‘It says here you are married. Your wife and son are dead’.

  ‘My wife is dead. My son is alive.’

  Wolff frowns. Taking a pen from his pocket he strikes out words in the file and writes a correction.

  ‘So, you have a son. How old is he? Where is he?’

  ‘Three years old. He lives with his grandparents.’

  ‘Very pleasant. Lucky for you. Ah, I forgot. You do not believe in luck.’

  ‘His grandparents are old and unwell. I have used up three days of my leave already. If this is some kind of social meeting then we must get together some other time.’

  Theo swallows. The words just slipped out. Wolff stares at him, his face set hard.

  ‘So you think I have time for social visits?’ The words are harsh, and hissed through Wolff’s teeth. ‘Do you suppose I spent the last few months having you checked and followed so I can pass the time of day with you? Do you think the Generalmajor spent the last week dragging himself around those shitholes you’ve been in simply to get you here so I can tell you that you look like a refugee? There is one thing you can be sure of, Kapitänleutnant Volker, you will not be visiting your son!’

  Wolff stands up, paces to the open door and returns to the chair. He turns it and then straddles it again. Props his elbows on the chair’s back.

  ‘You are not a Party member. Why is that?’

  ‘I was never much of a joiner.’

  ‘But you joined the Kriegsmarine.’

  ‘Why have I been brought here?’

  ‘That is not your concern. I ask the questions. Did you volunteer for naval service?’

  ‘As did many others.’

  ‘You had no need to volunteer. You were offered a position on the mines in Lorraine. You accepted.’

  ‘I did not accept. I was told mining engineers were needed in France and I said I would consider it.’

  ‘You joined the navy because you did not want to go to France.’

  ‘I was told they used forced labour on the mines. I am a mining engineer, not a prison warder.’

  ‘You listened to idle talk. Lorraine would have been an easy life for you, you would merely have been advising the guards. But you refused to help the Reich.’

  ‘I did not refuse. I considered the mines and then joined the navy. Is that why I’m here? It was no crime. Why this is of interest to the Luftwaffe? Why did you have me followed?’

  Wolff smiles. ‘Theodor, Theodor, so many questions! No, that is not why you are here. And you are beginning to irritate me… exactly one year ago you were disciplined for striking a superior in a bar-room brawl.’

  ‘The man was drunk and offensive.’

  ‘I have heard that most U-boat men on shore are fairly offensive, drunk or sober. You were at fault.’

  ‘I was at fault for striking the man and I was disciplined. If I have done anything wrong, Herr Major, surely it is a matter for Naval High Command.’

  ‘Forget Naval High Command. If your return to Bremen is delayed then the correct authorities will be notified.’

  ‘If, Herr Major?’

  Wolff has picked up the file and he writes as he speaks. Makes comments and corrections.

  ‘Despite your occasional misdemeanours you appear to obey naval orders to the letter.’

  ‘I am a good German Officer.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the commander of a U-boat enjoys a certain freedom?’

  ‘No more than the commander of any other vessel.’

  ‘That is not what I have heard. However, that is not my concern.’ He turns pages. Several fall from the file and Theo moves quickly, picking them up and handing them back. He glances at them for clues but learns nothing. ‘Your last command...’ Wolff continues. ‘I am told you sailed your damaged vessel to Trondheim against all odds. I am told your weapons were out of action and you were unable to submerge.’

  ‘My actions were no different to those of other commanders.’

  ‘Would you say you are a survivor?’

  ‘Aren’t we all, those that remain?’

  ‘I asked you a question. Don’t answer my questions with your own questions.’

  ‘I have survived so far. My wife has not.’

  ‘And you hold yourself responsible for that?’ Theo’s mouth locks as he searches for words. ‘Calm yourself, Kapitänleutnant. I did not say you were responsible, I merely asked you if you held yourself responsible.’

  ‘I was not with her. I was not there to help her.’

  ‘And your son?’

  ‘I believe my son is unharmed.’

  ‘I remember Erika from school. I am sorry she is dead. How did it happen?’

  ‘I’m sure it says in your papers.’

  ‘Never mind what it says in my papers. I want to hear it from you.’

  ‘She had moved to Hamburg. She died in a bombing raid. Her parents travelled there and
found Peter in an orphanage. Erika had already been buried.’

  ‘And for this you hate the enemy?’

  ‘I hate this war and the things it does to people.’

  ‘But you hate the enemy.’

  ‘I hate what they have to do and what we have to do.’

  ‘You would be wise to keep such thoughts to yourself.’

  ‘It is how I feel.’

  ‘You have changed, Kapitänleutnant. You were the quiet one. What happened to the young man I once knew?’

  ‘War changes people.’

  They lock eyes. Theo holds the stare.

  ‘So it does, Theodor, so it does. Tell me, when you were at mining school you visited England, is that not so?’

  If that is what it says in your notes, Theo tells himself, then it must be right.

  ‘No. I visited Scotland, not England. It’s no secret. There were many such exchanges. Mining engineers came to us and we went to them.’

  ‘So you have friends there?’

  ‘A mining engineer visited our mines in the Hartz. Later I travelled to Scotland and stayed with his family, nothing more. These things were not unusual. It happened several years before this war started.’

  ‘And do you still contact him?’

  ‘Herr Major! Of course I do not contact him!’

  ‘Did you contact him in the years before the war?’

  ‘We swapped Christmas greetings. Possibly a letter or two. May I ask why you want to know these things?’

  ‘I wish to convince myself you are as reliable and trustworthy as this report makes you out to be.’

  ‘Am I supposed to feel flattered?’

  ‘You are not supposed to feel anything. I warn you again, treat your superiors with respect or suffer the consequences. I shall leave you here to consider your position. When I return I want to hear that you will co-operate with me fully and without question.’

  ‘And if I do not, Herr Major? May I continue my journey?’

  ‘If you do not, Theodor, you will never again see your son.’

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  SPARGO’S HOTEL SERVED BREAKFAST but not evening meals. Had he known that before he arrived he would have stayed elsewhere. He could drive to Inverness now, he supposed, but the drive from Kilcreg had been hell and he didn’t feel up to it. Whenever he put his foot on his car’s clutch he’d had indescribable pain in his legs and groin.