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

by Richard Whittle

  Deciding that food was the last of his priorities he ordered a coffee from the bar, then changed his mind and carried back to his table a double whisky, three bags of crisps and some nuts.

  Not only had the drive been hell, the whole day had been hell. He had attended to his injuries as best as he could. He managed, with great difficulty and even greater pain, to remove most of the large splinters of wood from his flesh and then bind the wounds tightly with bandages from his car.

  The canvas wrapping around the package he found was bound with thick copper wire, twisted tight with pliers. He had tried to unwind it, and when that failed he dug down through the rotting canvas with his screwdriver. Eventually he reached what, in poor light, looked like rusty steel.

  With what little strength he had left he’d trundled the package to the kitchen, heaved it up on to the windowsill and pushed it outside. Rather than attempt to take it to his car he had, reluctantly, driven his car over the rough ground to the back of the house. He’d been so convinced the package was what his mother’s killer had been seeking, that when he reached Inverness he took it straight to the police. The desk officer took one look at him and called an ambulance.

  Now he sat alone in the hotel bar, picking at crisps and nuts. Sipping at the whisky he remembered the no alcohol warning he’d been given at Raigmore when they dosed him with painkillers. He limped to the bar again. Came back with a coffee.

  ‘Looks like you’ve lost fifty dollars and won five.’ The voice was distant and had a soft Texan drawl. ‘Don’t much like drinking alone,’ it continued. ‘You mind if I come over?’

  Spargo grunted. The last thing he needed was company. He swivelled in his chair and caught sight of a tall, lean man lifting a chair.

  ‘Couldn’t help noticing you were driving a Volvo,’ the man said as he carried the chair towards Spargo’s table. ‘Great cars. Had one just like it in the Gulf.’

  Spargo willed the man to go away. It didn’t work. He turned again, this time seeing him properly for the first time and taking in his weather-worn features and long dark sideboards. Also the white shirt, the white designer jeans and the jewellery. Draped around the man’s neck was a heavy chain – solid gold, Spargo guessed. On it hung a heavy medallion – more gold – that swung hypnotically when the man moved.

  And there was still more gold, two signet rings, a watch and its expanding strap. The only metallic object he wore that wasn’t gold was a heavy belt buckle of brass. There was, Spargo realised, something of Elvis about the man.

  ‘You want a drink?’

  ‘Thanks, no, I’m okay.’

  Mock Elvis looked him up and down. ‘You been in the wars? What the heck happened?’

  Since his hospital visit Spargo had changed clothes. His hands were still stained with antiseptic and dressed with cotton pads. One side of his face had abrasions that had been treated and left exposed. The worst damage, to his torn thighs and calves, didn’t show.

  Spargo didn’t comment. Tried a switched-on smile.

  The man smiled back. ‘You here on vacation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it’s work?’

  ‘No.’ Spargo wanted to walk away but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. ‘I’ve just buried my mother,’ he said instead.

  It should have been the ultimate conversation stopper. It didn’t stop Kalman.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry, I guess you don’t want company right now.’ He took a swig of beer. ‘One sure thing,’ he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘One day we all gonna die.’

  Another sure thing was that despite Kalman’s realisation that Spargo didn’t want company, the man was making himself comfortable at Spargo’s table.

  Spargo wanted to add that not only was his mother dead, she had been murdered, beaten to death, and how did that fit with such glib observations?

  ‘True,’ he said, instead.

  ‘You live around here?’

  ‘Edinburgh.’

  ‘Hey, went there a while back, spend time seeing the sights. Didn’t expect to be having another vacation so soon but the boat’s in dock, got pump problems, been waiting for a part from the ‘States but turns out it’s special, y’know? They got to make the darned thing from scratch.’

  Spargo nodded as if he cared. Or understood. As if it were the most natural thing in the world for a man dressed like Elvis to need a new part for a pump.

  ‘It’s Bob, the man said, as if starting over. This time he extended a hand and Spargo shook it. ‘Kalman’s the name. Diving’s the game.’

  Spargo winced. ‘Diving?’

  He winced again as he realised he had make the mistake of asking Kalman a question. The man had baited the hook and Spargo had bitten. For the next two hours he listened to the story of Kalman’s life, give or take a few years.

  ‘Started on land-based oil rigs,’ Kalman said. ‘And then moved offshore, eventually became a diver. Made more money in the Gulf than I ever made back home – but what the heck, Spargo! The money I get now is good. Been with the same outfit a while. Like I said, the boat’s in dock. So I’m taking time out to see this great country of yours.’

  And so it went on. Until Spargo, more asleep than awake, excused himself and went to bed.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  TO AVOID KALMAN NEXT MORNING, Spargo went without breakfast. Wanting to be alert for his drive home he hadn’t taken his medication and was suffering all kinds of pains. By the time he was thirty minutes into the drive he was wishing he’d stayed an extra night. Then he remembered Kalman and changed his mind.

  His drive south went smoothly. Before midday he had crossed the Firth of Forth, and less than thirty minutes later he turned into Jez’s road. To save her the trouble of taking her overnight bag on the train he’d kept it in his car and now he was dropping it off, looking for somewhere to park, driving round the block for the second time. The third time round he got lucky, pulling in to a space just vacated by a small black Fiat driven by young man who could hardly see over its steering wheel.

  Spargo had keys to Jez’s flat but he didn’t like to use them. It was his daughter’s domain, not his. When he reached the top of the steps that led to her door he pressed the doorbell, heard it ring and then waited. It was a weekday, she wasn’t home – which, considering the state he was in was a very a good thing. He unlocked her door, went inside, waited and listened. Carrying her bag he walked through to her kitchen and placed it where she would see it. No need for a note.

  He missed family life. He and Theresa could have strung out their relationship for a few more years just for Jez’s sake. He would have been willing to do it but then Theresa simply upped sticks and went. Despite that, Jez didn’t appear to have suffered. If anything, she was more content and more stable than he was.

  There was no way his daughter could have afforded to buy a place in such a desirable location on her lecturer’s salary and he suspected, but had never asked, that most of the money had come from Theresa, perhaps in the hope that when Jez left university she wouldn’t move back into the family home with her father.

  Spargo’s house in The Grange in south Edinburgh held more good memories than bad. It had been the family home, the house he and Theresa bought before prices went skywards. When they split up he bought his share of the house from her. His reason for keeping the place – it was excessively large for his needs and he should have downsized – was simple: his business wasn’t doing well; mining in Britain had been dead for years and it seemed that the heydays of North Sea Oil would soon be over. If business got worse he would sell the house, buy a smaller place and use the capital to do something else. He had no idea what.

  He arrived home to find his answering machine blinking. Only three messages. Time was when after even a short time away from home there would be fifty or sixty. He touched ‘play’. Heard Benares’ oily tones giving him a date and saying Spargo was booked Business Class to Madrid. He checked the date on his watch. His flight
to Madrid was tomorrow.

  Benares was waiting for Spargo at Barajas International Airport. Spargo’s image of the man had been dulled by time and he took in the round face, the slicked-back black hair, the pale suit and the open-necked, yellow shirt.

  ‘Mister Spargo! I am pleased to see you! Again, I am sorry if I inconvenienced you when I telephoned. I trust I did not interfere with the arrangements?’

  Spargo tried to recall if any other of his potential clients had apologised for something that wasn’t their fault. He smiled at the man and held out his hand. Got the firm, dry handshake.

  ‘I am the one who should be apologising. What with everything…’

  The niceties continued as they walked to retrieve Spargo’s bags: how was the flight? How is the weather in Scotland? Only when they reached the carousels did Spargo realise they were being followed by a uniformed driver in a high-fronted peaked cap.

  Benares, true to form, kept the conversation shallow but pleasant.

  ‘This is your first visit to Madrid, yes?’

  ‘I was here twenty years ago. I guess it has changed.’

  ‘So-so. There is more traffic and therefore more pollution. I am sure it is the same with you. I have never been to Edinburgh. It is, of course, a city like so many others, overcrowded with people and motor cars.’

  ‘It’s not so bad. For a city it is small and compact. The traffic’s nothing like – ’

  The baggage carousel started to move. Spargo stepped forwards awkwardly and pain from his stitched cuts made him wince. In his haste to pack and get to Heathrow he had forgotten his painkillers.

  ‘Mister Spargo?’ Benares queried, staring and frowning. ‘You have pain? You have injured yourself?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I fell and cut myself. It gets sore sometimes.’

  Benares nodded. Turned his attention to the carousel.

  ‘Ah, you see, the baggage, it arrives!’

  Spargo entered Madrid in a spotlessly clean Mercedes. By accident or design its pale fawn paintwork and leather upholstery were identical in colour to the driver’s smart suit, his cap and his suede shoes.

  The car turned onto the tree-lined Castellano and drove west through dense traffic. Spargo tried to recall the buildings as they passed them, finally deciding this was not a part of the city he had seen before. His last visit had been short and he’d had no time for sightseeing. All his trips abroad were like that, his clients always seemed to be on their way to somebody more important than him. Benares, at least in this respect, was a breath of fresh air.

  As in London, all attempts to converse with the man about business failed miserably. At the oil show, trying to discover what the man really wanted, Spargo had asked most of the questions. He hadn’t progressed far.

  ‘My employer will explain,’ Benares said back then. He said it again now, this time adding: ‘I am merely his agent.’

  The Mercedes turned off the main street into a road named Orense, a side road lined with a strange mix of properties. Old Spanish buildings with ornate stonework and ironwork balconies sat uncomfortably beside dark glass and steel.

  In a maze of small streets the driver slowed the car, turned his wheel sharply and aimed for parked cars at the kerbside. Spargo tensed. He hadn’t noticed the gap between them, nor the steep ramp beyond it. The Mercedes slipped deftly down the concrete slope, under a barrier, and into a dark basement car park.

  Fluorescent tubes flickered. The place was huge and empty, theirs was the only car. Spargo’s imagination worked overtime, placing him well below decks in a vast aircraft carrier. A lift big enough to accommodate twenty people took them up through the building. Spargo, standing in a back corner, wondered if it had ever carried that number.

  He wasn’t taken to the flight deck of his imagination but to the top floor in a seven storey building. Following Benares out of the lift he stepped into what he mistook for the reception area of a small hotel. It was freshly decorated, and brightly lit by halogen spots in the ceiling. Across the room, with its back to the wall, stood a small reception desk with two swivel chairs. Both were empty. Close to the desk were a sofa and armchair, each upholstered in yellow leather, and a glass topped table with what looked like magazines.

  Spargo, his hands behind his back, took note of the layout. All lights were on. There were three offices at least, all with half open, half-glazed doors. He listened for sounds of staff working but heard nothing. He looked for nameplates. A sign on a door near the lift said SALIDA – exit – one of the few Spanish words he knew.

  ‘Is this BarConSA’s office?’

  ‘BarConSa has many offices. But yes, Mister Spargo, Mr Bar does own the building. Now, make yourself comfortable, please sit down, I have telephone calls to make. Should you wish to refresh yourself there is a cloakroom.’ He gestured to a corridor. ‘It is along there.’

  Spargo positioned himself in the middle of the sofa, then changing his mind and moved to one end of it. At the sound of the lift motor Benares, about to enter a nearby office, stopped and stared at the lift doors. The motor stopped. The doors didn’t open. Nobody came.

  What Spargo had mistaken for magazines turned out to be shipping directories, airline timetables and international phone books, stacked neatly on the glass-topped table. Like everything else in the place, the pile was free from dust. Spargo, flicking through them, observed that the directories were all twelve years old. Even dentists’ waiting rooms had newer reading material than this.

  Bored, Spargo listened to Benares talking on an office phone. Though he was unable to understand a single word, he was aware that every so often the man cursed, slammed down the handset, picked it up again and tapped in more numbers. With every call he became more agitated and his voice more high-pitched. Fifteen minutes passed and Benares was still at it, still phoning, still cursing and redialling.

  The only thing on the reception desk was a leather-bound diary. Spargo reached for it, opened it, and flicked through its pages. Not a single word had been written. Also, it was ten years old.

  Spargo, thirsty, set off down the corridor. Shoving the door marked with the outline of a man he walked to a sink and turned the tap. Concerned the water might also be at least twelve years old he let it run for a while before cupping his hands under it and taking deep gulps. He also took the opportunity to drop his trousers and examine the surgical dressings – passably clean with a slight seep of blood. He’d been given replacements. As with his painkillers, he’d left them at home. Out in the corridor again he heard Benares, still phoning.

  Wondering not for the first time why he was there, Spargo looked through the glass portholes in the doors in the corridor, peering into furnished offices, all brightly lit. One door stood ajar and he pushed it open. It swung back more easily than he’d expected and hit the wall with a thud. He waited, expecting Benares to appear. When he did not, Spargo entered the room.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  THOUGH THE BRIGHT SPANISH SUN was more than capable of illuminating the room Spargo had entered, its efforts were supplemented by an array of halogen spotlights recessed into the ceiling. The furniture, in complete contrast to the glass and yellow leather of the foyer, were, at least to Spargo’s eyes, valuable antiques. A long mahogany table down the middle of the room was so precisely positioned between the long sidewalls that the distances might well have been measured. Tucked under each long side of the table were five ornate chairs. The carpet, Spargo noticed, was twice as thick as the one in reception. Its repeating design – a fleur-de-lis motif – added a classical touch to what was otherwise an inescapably boring, shoebox shaped room.

  At the far end of the room a high-backed armchair stood throne-like. Its seat cushion, Spargo saw when he reached it, was four inches higher than all the others. He wiped a finger along the back of the chair and found no trace of dust. It was, he thought, a boardroom without a Chairman or board of directors. A captains’ table without a captain or crew.

  At the room’s o
nly window he gazed down to a courtyard, deep-walled and dark. In the midst of these office buildings is washing on a line, a child’s buggy, a red ride-on car. Madrid, he remembered, is like that.

  He had taken little notice of the pictures on the walls when he walked down the room. He had assumed they were photographs of chairmen long-gone, pictures similar to those he had seen on the walls of the old mining internationals in the City of London. Now, as he walked back towards the door, he realised he was wrong.

  The first picture he stopped at was not a photograph of a man, it was a photograph of a painting of a man. He frowned. A black and white photo of an old painting didn’t look right. What made it more ridiculous was that it was mounted in a black wooden frame, behind glass. There were more like that, a total of ten on each wall. One that particularly attracted his attention was a head and shoulders portrait of a young woman in mediaeval dress. Or a man, perhaps? He couldn’t tell.

  Spargo had no doubts about the gender of the subject in the picture next to it. Even allowing for the fact it should have been in colour, the woman’s eyes still followed him around the room. Why would anyone bother to hang such a poor version of the original in a company boardroom? And why monochrome?

  ‘An old and fascinating collection, Mister Spargo, do you not think?’

  Spargo jumped. Benares had slipped silently into the room and was standing behind him, up close. There was no telling how long he had been there. Benares continued:

  ‘I am told that the previous owners of this building became bankrupt. These photographs were left on the walls and Mr Bar could find no reason why they should not remain here. Now, you must forgive me for keeping you waiting. It appears that Mr Bar is indisposed. I have finally located him and I am pleased to say that this evening he will join us for dinner. Meanwhile perhaps you would like something to drink?’