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

by Richard Whittle

  Spargo stood in the foyer of his hotel staring out at the road through a wall of smoked glass. A taxi rank, a row of shops. Hordes of scurrying shoppers even at this late hour. The day had not gone well. At five this morning he had showered, shaved and dressed. He had gone without breakfast, driven to Edinburgh Airport, flown to Heathrow and then on to Madrid. He had been taken to an office resembling a landlocked Marie Celeste and wasted two hours there. He was offered a drink that never came – he would have preferred a large gin but had been offered a coffee. Benares had searched for it in the office’s small kitchen. There was no coffee. Not only had Benares failed to produce Mr Bar, he had failed to find a drink of any kind.

  Benares had then summoned a taxi that took them to a tapas bar a five minute walk away. The export strength G&T Spargo ordered when he arrived was closely followed by another, accompanied by small plates of snacks that did little to counter the numbing effects the alcohol was having on his brain. His saving grace was that Benares seemed oblivious to these things and, like him, sat quietly on stools at the bar until it was time to leave.

  He had expected a taxi but Benares called for the Mercedes. It arrived within minutes, driven by a chauffeur who resembled a uniformed orang-utan. The car deposited Spargo at a hotel a stone’s throw from the American Embassy and then it vanished, with Benares, into dense Madrid traffic.

  Now, in the late evening, Spargo saw the Mercedes again, dead on time with Benares in the back, mannequin-slick in a fresh, cream-coloured suit and off-white shoes. Spargo, as always, had travelled light and had little more than he stood up in. His suit looked like crumpled linen – his own fault for not removing his jacket before dozing off in the plane. He slid into the back of the car beside Benares.

  ‘Mister Spargo, how are you this evening? Regrettably Mr Bar is unable to dine with us tonight but we shall visit him tomorrow, it is all arranged. Now, do you know the Calle de Serrano? It is like your Bond Street in London or your George Street in Edinburgh. In Serrano there is a small but exclusive restaurant much favoured by Mr Bar, where a table has been reserved for us.’

  Spargo said nothing. He felt there was nothing to say. The Mercedes swung in a tight circle, turned a corner, and almost immediately pulled in at the curb. Spargo, wondering if he was about to be dumped out on the pavement for not speaking, saw they had arrived at their destination – the restaurant favoured, but presumably not visited that often, by Mr Bar.

  At Benares’ approach the restaurant’s plate glass door it was snatched open from the inside by a man in a black tailcoat and a scarlet cummerbund. He bowed low to Benares and addressed him by name. He peered suspiciously at Spargo, who gave a brief, forced smile.

  Tailcoat guided them to an alcove screened from other diners by twin curtains. Red velvet, Spargo noted. Red like the paintwork, the carpet, the ornate tasselled lampshades and, of course, tailcoat’s cummerbund. The red lampshades cast a glow across Benares. Lit his pale suit red.

  The place looked expensive. Spargo hoped he’d got his facts right about Bar meeting all the expenses. BarConSa clearly had money; they owned office blocks and travelled in style in an expensive car; they had booked him into a five-star and now were taking him to dinner; and they were paying – of course they were paying…

  He gave Benares an approving nod. ‘Nice place!’

  ‘As you say, Mister Spargo, nice place. Tell me, how does one become a miner? Is it in your family? Is your father a miner?’

  ‘I am a mining engineer, Mr Benares, not a miner.’

  ‘There is a difference?’

  ‘I spent four years at university. I have a degree in mining engineering and I am a Chartered Engineer. I am sure BarConSA wouldn’t expect anything less from a consultant.’

  ‘And your father? Does he mine for coal?’

  ‘My father died when I was young. He mined for tin in Cornwall. In the nineteen-thirties he moved to Scotland to manage a scheelite mine.’

  ‘What is scheelite?’

  ‘An ore of tungsten, the strongest metal known. It is added to steel to improve its strength and quality.’ He wondered if he had got that right, there were so many new metals around these days. Not that it mattered, because Benares wouldn’t know and wouldn’t care. The man was already bored. He was playing with his blood-coloured cloth napkin, part-camouflaged by the table’s red cloth.

  Spargo relaxed. This was smalltalk, and essential preliminary for what was about to come – the discussions, the real business. But the smalltalk continued. Spargo tried, in vain, to turn the conversation to BarConSA and what they wanted from him.

  In London, Spargo had discovered that Benares knew nothing about mining. Now, over the meal, he discovered that the man knew nothing about BarConSA’s plans for him. Or if he did, he did not intend to divulge them.

  Early the following morning Spargo packed his bags and took the lift to reception. The bill was presented to him and he looked at the total, wincing as he converted it to pounds sterling. It was enough to feel a small family for a week.

  ‘It is for you to check and approve, Senör,’ the receptionist said. ‘For your signature only. It is to be charged to a private account.’

  Spargo, doing his best not to look relieved, signed on the line, picked up his bags and walked to the smoked glass. The fawn Mercedes was there, at the roadside.

  ‘No Mr Benares this morning?’ Spargo asked the driver as the car moved away. The man grunted and pulled out into traffic. Spargo repeated the question. The man replied in Spanish. Instead of turning in the road towards Castellano the car kept going. Five minutes later they were heading north out of the city in heavy traffic. After passing three overhead signs saying Aeropuerto, Spargo asked more questions. Received only grunts.

  Settling back into plush leather he considered last night’s meal, his barely-cooked slab of beef that had occupied the entire surface of what Spargo initially thought was a serving plate. Then Benares was given one too. It came without vegetables. Or anything else.

  It had been a bizarre end to a bizarre day, Benares pouring away money as if it were water. The Rioja was a select year and must have cost a small fortune – Mister Bar’s favourite, Benares had said. Spargo had wondered then, as he was wondering now, if Bar actually existed.

  The Mercedes crossed three lanes and positioned itself for the airport. Benares was dumping him, sending him home. Either Bar hadn’t been able to make it or else he, Spargo, hadn’t made the grade in some way. Was it the way he’d held his knife and fork? Was it his crumpled suit? Was it because he had failed to eat barely one third of the outrageous slab of meat?

  Not that it mattered. Providing BarConSA paid up he would be out of pocket only by the cost of fuel for his drive to the airport at home – also the small fortune it would cost him to get his car out of the airport’s car park. Worst of all was the wasted time. What little consulting work Spargo had still needed to be done. What with clearing the cottage and later the funeral, he was behind with his work.

  ‘I want Internacionales,’ Spargo snapped, noticing another sign. ‘You are taking me to the Nacionales. I do not want an internal flight.’

  True to form the driver said nothing. He stopped the car, got out, opened Spargo’s door wide and went to the boot for Spargo’s bag.

  ‘You get out of car! Por favor!’

  ‘Wrong terminal,’ Spargo said. ‘You take me Internacionales. Internacionales vamos.’

  Vamos sounded right so he said it again, this time louder. The driver shook his head.

  Spargo didn’t see Benares come up behind the driver. But that was the way of the man.

  ‘Mr Spargo, you cannot sit in the car for all of the day. I see you have your bag, that is good. You have checked out of the hotel? Yes?’

  Benares wore a three-quarter length alpaca coat. It was draped over his shoulders Al Capone style. It protected yet another immaculately pressed suit.

  ‘Today we shall fly to Almeria. It is in the south east of Spain, in Andaluci
a. You have heard of it, possibly?’

  Spargo, numbed, swung a leg out of the car and eased himself up. He went to pick up his bag but the driver got to it first.

  ‘Almeria,’ Spargo said. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’

  He wasn’t sure whether Benares’ unexpected presence made him feel better or worse. He had already convinced himself that in a few hours he would be home, pouring himself a well-earned whisky. He wanted to complain that he should have been warned about all this but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He believed the unwritten maxim that the client is always right. Or at least, he believed it until the client was hooked.

  What made Benares’ revelations more bearable was that Andalucia was rich in minerals, probably the right place to be if you owned Spanish mines. The downside was that if this was an example of the kind of organisation he could expect throughout the project – if indeed there was a project – then things didn’t look good.

  ‘We leave in forty minutes,’ Benares said, turning to Spargo who now lagged behind. ‘It is necessary to hurry.’

  Spargo picked up speed. Drew level with the man.

  ‘Are you sure Mr Bar is there?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course! I have organised it! Would I lie to you, Mister Spargo?’

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  BY LATE EVENING THEO WONDERS if Walter will ever return to the basement room. Several times during late afternoon the wall light flickers, and shortly after nine o’clock the power fails completely. It returns thirty minutes later, as does the sound of footsteps. They are the first distinct sounds Theo has heard since Wolff locked the steel gate.

  Though Theo hears two sets of footsteps, Wolff enters the room alone. He orders Theo to strip naked and he is obeyed without question. When it is done Walter opens the door to a short, overweight man in Luftwaffe uniform. Taking a cloth tape measure from his pocket the man advances on Theo and then stops, observing Theo’s body the way a cattle buyer might appraise cows at an auction.

  Nobody speaks. Theo, in the middle of the room, raises his arms in expectation of being measured. The man, clearly a tailor, shakes his head. He doesn’t need measurements. Still silent the man salutes the naked Theo and leaves the room.

  ‘It seems that you are a standard size,’ Wolff says. ‘Get dressed. Tomorrow, when I return, you will do the same as you have just done. That man must not see your naval uniform.’

  The tailor returns the following morning holding a varnished wooden coat hanger on which is a neatly pressed Luftwaffe uniform. Draped over his arm is more clothing that he places carefully on the bed, smoothing out creases with strokes of his hand. Walter is carrying a Luftwaffe kitbag that he upends on the bed, spilling out shirts, socks and underclothes. Theo watches with interest. The fact Walter is carrying the kit rather than a low-ranking orderly implies that whatever he is doing is secret.

  Theo dresses under the eye of the tailor, who tugs at the fabric and smooths out the creases. From a trouser pocket he takes a folding clothes brush, flips up the bristles and brushes Theo down. When he is finished he stands back, inspects his work one last time, then turns and salutes Walter.

  ‘Herr Major! Tunic, one; trousers, two pairs; greatcoat, one; underwear, three sets; shoes, two pairs; belts – ’

  ‘Yes, yes, I have eyes, I can count. Give me that…!’

  He beckons with impatient fingers and is given a docket to sign. When the man has gone Theo flexes first his arms and each leg. Despite not having been measured, the uniform fits perfectly. Walter stands in the corner and watches. Stroking his chin he nods his approval.

  ‘I have no right to wear this uniform,’ Theo says. ‘It is a breach of regulations.’

  ‘Keep your observations to yourself. Ask no questions and follow my instructions, you are an actor, you are playing a part. From now on you will wear this uniform. Cut that fungus from your face and you might even look like a Luftwaffe officer.’

  ‘What are these stripes? What is this rank?’

  ‘Are you unfamiliar with the ranks of our military?’

  ‘I spend my time at sea. I have never had reason or time to learn the distinguishing marks of our other forces.’

  ‘It is the rank of Hauptmann. It is an equivalent rank to your own.’

  ‘Tell me what you want from me. I know nothing about our air force or our aircraft. What am I to say when I am questioned? How shall I answer?’

  ‘Questioned? Why should you be questioned?’

  ‘In conversation. If a senior officer speaks to me what do I say?’

  ‘You spent four uneventful years behind a desk, administrating the anti-aircraft defences in a large city. Nobody will be stupid enough to ask you which city or what you did there – and if they do, you will not be stupid enough to attempt to answer them. And you are wrong when you say you know nothing. Surely as a naval commander you are able to identify aircraft? Surely you can distinguish the enemy from friends? Get your kitbag. No, not that one, your naval kitbag. Empty it out.’

  Theo does as he is told. Wolff rummages through the bag’s contents, shoving small items aside as if they are contaminated. Realising Theo is watching he wags his finger and points to the sink.

  ‘That beard… it resembles a whore’s yard brush. Remove it, every bit of it. I want you clean shaven. While you are shaving I shall take your naval items. I want everything, your sea boots and these binoculars. What are these?’

  Wolff is reaching across the bed. Not everything tipped out of the kitbag when it was upended. Several books remain jammed inside. Wolff opens one and turns pages. Theo protests.

  ‘They contain private writings.’

  ‘Diaries, you mean? That is foolish.’

  ‘They are personal.’

  ‘Do they contain accounts of naval actions?’

  ‘They do not. I have mentioned no names and no places.’

  Wolff sits on the bed, thumbing pages while Theo shaves. Finally he gathers up the books and throws them onto a pile that has been growing in size.

  ‘It surprises me you waste naval stationery on such trivia. The Generalmajor will see they are destroyed with the rest of your things.’

  ‘They are of no importance, Walter. They are – ’

  Wolff fixes Theo with a glare. But instead of the outburst Theo expects, Wolff speaks quietly, in measured tones.

  ‘God, you look human at last, more like the Theodor I knew. Take note that you will never again call me Walter. Never, you understand? You will refer to me always as Major Wolff, even when we are alone. Now, sit down on that chair and listen to what I have to say. From now you are Hauptmann Theodor Vogel. Repeat?’

  ‘This is not – ’

  ‘Shut your mouth! Who are you?’

  ‘Hauptmann Theodor Vogel. Herr Major!’

  Wolff is nodding. ‘Very good. And again?’

  ‘Hauptmann Theodor Vogel. Herr Major!’

  ‘Soon the Generalmajor will come with new documents. He will give you a carbon copy of your Luftwaffe service record. Once you have memorised it you will place it on the pile.’

  Wolff stoops, searches through the pile and picks out a pen. He unscrews the top and runs the nib across the back of his hand. There is ink.

  ‘When I have gone, Vogel, you will practice your signature. It will not be in the documents, it is for you to invent. Use one of your precious books. Get used to writing it. Perfect it.’

  ‘This isn’t possible, Herr Major! You can’t simply change my life!’

  ‘You are wrong, Vogel. I have done it. You agreed to it.’

  ‘You gave me no choice.’

  ‘You had a choice. You agreed to co-operate.’

  ‘Hobson’s Choice, Herr Major.’

  ‘Hobson? What is Hobson?’

  ‘A British saying. It is Hobson’s Choice when you are given only one option.’

  ‘You are impertinent, Hauptmann Vogel, and you are wrong. Again, I allow you to choose. Either I have your full co-operation or you
leave this building in a wooden box.’

  Next morning Theo leaves Berlin in the truck that brought him there, still with the crates but no longer with the guard. Instead of the Generalmajor as company he has Wolff and he sits in the front on a bench seat, sandwiched between him and the driver. Nobody speaks. There is nothing to say.

  Theo passes the time by dredging up memories. Not only has his old friend Walter lost all trace of compassion, his appearance has changed almost beyond recognition. As a boy he was lean. Skinny, even. And there is the scar.

  Most clearly of all Theo remembers the day he saved Walter’s life, the summer’s day when they rode their bikes to the marshalling yards at Braunschweig to watch engines shunting, building long trains of wagons to take ingots of copper, lead and zinc from the smelters. How old was he then, fourteen? The day was hot, he remembers. To cool down after their long ride they dumped their bikes beside the canal, stripped off their clothes and swam in the still water. Walter, always reckless, swam under the moored barges. He didn’t return.

  The truck heads north. Theo doesn’t know Berlin but he knows his directions. In the streets men in shiny shoes and business suits step over burned timbers. Others, mostly women and children carrying baskets of rubble, labour like ants to clear the streets.

  At last Wolff speaks.

  ‘That fat-gut Churchill says he will do to Berlin what he’s done to Hamburg.’

  He is about to say more but his words are cut short by the driver, responding unexpectedly with obscenities aimed at the Allies. Wolff lets it pass. Such hatred is understandable. All around them are blackened tooth-sockets that were once Berlin’s buildings. Those dragged from the ruins are there too, their bodies hidden under sheets of pale canvas – a direct hit on a shelter. It was what happened to Erica, they said.

  With the exception of a military convoy, most of the vehicles on the roads to the north of Berlin are horse-drawn and ancient. It as if every horse and wagon in Germany has been pressed into service.

  Broken down vehicles and diversions turn a three hour journey into five. The final few miles are along lanes through dense woodland whose verges have been churned up by tyres. Theo assumes he is nearing an airfield, built for the defence of Berlin. He is wrong.