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

by Richard Whittle

  The truck slows to walking pace as it approaches farm buildings. A man dressed overalls crosses in front of them and stops by the roadside to wave. Further on they reach gatehouses built of stone, each with an archway surmounted by crests. Though there is no gate the driver slows down, drifting the truck forwards with his foot on the clutch. Theo, sure the gatehouses are unmanned, is surprised when an airman with a rifle slung on his shoulder steps out, stands in the lane and signals them to stop.

  The airman’s cuff is embroidered with the name General Göring in fine silver thread.

  When he sees the cab contains officers he ignores the driver, walks to Wolff’s door, salutes him and asks for their papers. Wolff slides the window open and hands out three passbooks and permits. The guard opens them in turn and flicks through them, glancing at photos and faces. He hands back Wolff’s and the driver’s but concentrates hard on Theo’s. Then, without speaking and still holding Theo’s papers, he turns on his heel and walks back to the gatehouse.

  Theo, attempting to appear disinterested, peers ahead, out of the windscreen at a forest track so straight and so long it appears to converge on a single, distant point. It is perfect perspective. It distracts him for all of three seconds.

  When Theo first inspected his Luftwaffe papers he saw that they’d taken the photo from his Kriegsmarine passbook. Conveniently for them the photo was old, taken before he grew his beard. Less conveniently it showed the shoulders of his naval tunic with the stripes of the rank he had held back then – a junior lieutenant, a Leutnant zur See. Staining now masked the stripes. It was as if drink had been spilled on the photo.

  Theo feels fear he felt in Berlin. Could his papers contain a deliberate error, something the airman is meant to spot? Is he here simply to be arrested, taken away and questioned as part of a dastardly plot only Walter and the Generalmajor understand? Surely, after all that has happened in the last forty eight hours, anything is possible.

  A Luftwaffe officer in a forage cap appears in the archway. He is taller and slimmer than the airman and his tunic, like the airman’s, bears the General Göring braid. The man, a Hauptmann like himself, struts smartly over, salutes Wolff, and frowns at Theo.

  ‘Herr Hauptmann – with respect – your passbook and photograph… this damage is unacceptable. I must urge you to obtain a replacement as soon as it is possible to do so.’

  Theo hopes his relief doesn’t show. He waits for Walter to speak on his behalf but to his surprise he does not. Theo acknowledges the officer with a nod but it is not enough, his papers are not handed back.

  ‘Herr Hauptmann, I apologise. My documents sustained damage in a bombing raid. There has not been time to – ’

  The heel of Wolff’s shoe crushes Theo’s foot. The pain is unexpected and cuts Theo short. Walter interrupts by reaching out for Theo’s passbook and waggling his fingers until it is handed over. He takes it and inspects it.

  ‘Hauptmann Vogel is my personal assistant. I was not aware of this damage and I shall see to it that the matter is resolved immediately.’

  Walter does the waggling fingers thing again, this time pointing to Theo’s travel permit. The officer hands it over.

  ‘I await your orders, Herr Major!’

  It is a military expression of subservience, one Theo discourages in his boat crews. The officer takes a step back and salutes again. Walter responds by sliding the window closed and pointing to the track ahead. The driver engages gear and pulls slowly away.

  Theo stands in a disused barrack hut that smells faintly of wood smoke. He watches Walter, who walks the length of the hut and shoves a closed door with his foot. Theo, inquisitive, follows him.

  The room at the end of the hut is twice the size of the one in the Air Ministry basement. It is not at all cell-like and contains two beds, two chairs and a table. Fixed high on one wall is a bookshelf with books stacked in piles. Between the beds, beside the room’s only window, is a small wood-burning stove. Theo, near the door, can feel its warmth. Walter goes to it, tugs up the coiled wire handle and peers inside. Theo mumbles.

  ‘Someone knew we were coming.’

  ‘Of course. Unless you want to freeze to death in the night you had better find logs. This thing is nearly out.’

  Unsure which of the two beds Walter will choose Theo drops his kitbag on the floor. Each of the window’s small panes has been painted brown, and in the centre of one of them someone has scratched the paint to leave a small square of clear glass. Theo walks to it and looks through it. Sees only dark-trunked firs.

  ‘This will be your room while you are here, Hauptmann Vogel. You will find it cramped but comfortable. There will be more room when one of these beds is removed. I shall arrange that.’

  Theo nods absently. The name and rank Walter uses sounds wrong, as was Theo’s assumption they would share the room. And, in his opinion, the room is not in the least bit cramped.

  Walter continues: ‘You will not fraternise with the staff here. You will not use the communal facilities such as the officer’s mess, nor will you venture near the house, do you understand?’

  Theo grunts a response. He has ceased to worry about why he is here and his mind dwells on smaller things, such as what staff and what house Walter might be referring to, and how he will eat if he cannot use the officers’ mess.

  He asks Walter. The food, Walter replies, will be brought to him.

  ‘Am I a prisoner? Can I not leave this room?’

  Walter’s expression seems to question Theo’s sanity. He frowns. Then he laughs out loud.

  ‘God in Heaven, Theodor! You are free to leave this building and walk on the estate. The troops here will be told you are my personal assistant and you are not to be disturbed.’

  Theo stays quiet. Walter is careless for using Theo’s real name. Careless, too, for using an old photograph in his new passbook.

  ‘I saw no house.’

  ‘There is a mansion not far from here. It is off limits to service personnel.’

  ‘What are my duties?’

  ‘Duties?’

  ‘As your personal assistant.’

  Walter turns his back, steps to the window and looks out through the unpainted square.

  ‘You have no duties. I have work to do. In a few days it will be complete. Until then I suggest you keep out of the way. Do you read?’

  ‘Read?’

  ‘Books, Theodor!’

  ‘Kriegsmarine seamanship manuals. I don’t suppose you have any.’

  Theo’s attempt at humour falls flat. Walter reaches up and takes a book from the shelf.

  ‘Mein Kampf, have you read it? It is the account of our Führer’s struggle against the Jews and Marxists.’

  Spargo shrugged. It was the most boring book he had ever attempted to read.

  ‘It was required reading at school,’ he says. ‘Surely you remember? I prefer mining books, Agricola, perhaps? de re metallica? No, I don’t suppose they have it. Tell me why you used that photo on my passbook. Why didn’t you have another taken?’

  ‘I would have thought it was obvious. You had just shaved off your beard. Your chin looked – it still looks – as rosy as a whore’s ass, while the rest of your face is tanned. On a new photograph the difference would have shown. I admit I was not expecting such vigilance on the part of a mere Luftwaffe gatekeeper. Now, I have to go, I have work to do. I said you are free to leave this room, Theodor, but I suggest you do not do that until I have explained to others who you are and why you are here. Tomorrow I shall come for you.’

  Walter leaves, walking the length of the outer room with long strides. As the barrack door slams behind him Theo heaves his kitbag on to one of the beds, upends it, and then wishes he hadn’t. There are no drawers or cupboards. Nowhere to store his kit.

  Fixed to the wall beside the door is a clock with a moonfaced dial and black hands. Theo compares its time with the time on his wristwatch. They differ by six minutes. Because he does not know which is correct he splits the difference a
nd sets his watch accordingly.

  Theo’s need to check and recheck all things – every switch and instrument, every valve and dial – is a habit bordering on obsession that started in the mines. Not only do you check and recheck, you watch your back and the backs of your colleagues, those that are next to you, behind you and ahead of you, above and below you. He knows his obsession and he lives with it, it has kept him alive. Though, if this is true, how did he get himself mixed up with the Generalmajor? With Walter?

  The answer is simple. He wrongly assumed the enemy was on the outside. He was not expecting an attack from within.

  Opposite the door to his room is another and he goes to it, opens it and enters a washroom built for twenty men, lavatories down one side and showers and lockers down the other. Once, two long rows of sinks faced each other down the middle of the room. Now only six remain, facing one another. Only two of them have taps.

  Theo walks to the shower cubicles. Their doors have been removed, as have the shower heads. Walking past the sinks he pauses, turns on a tap and is surprised the water runs clear. From somewhere above him comes the trickle of a tank refilling.

  Stacked against one wall of the washroom is a log pile big enough to keep the stove in his room fuelled for weeks. To one side of it, in the ceiling, is a hole for a stove pipe and he assumes that the stove, like the sinks, the taps and the showers, have been taken to equip other buildings. The light fittings have gone too, as have those in his room. For the first time for days he smiles. In a few hours he will be in the dark – even more in the dark than he is already.

  During the drive from the gatehouse to this place he took little notice of his surroundings. Now, outside for the first time, he stands still and listens. Unlike the track past the farm, this one, one the truck turned on to, is muddy and rutted. It has rained recently, and now the branches of tall firs are being shaken by a cool breeze. The only sound Theo hears is the faint hiss of raindrops, falling from branches onto long grass.

  There is water nearby, he can sense it. It is something to do with the light, the extra brightness water brings to the sky. When the breeze changes direction he hears other sounds, the hum of distant engines and the occasional raised voice, even the whinny of a horse. No doubt the troops Walter mentioned are billeted in newer, better quarters that this, in huts with decent plumbing and electric light, huts without holes in the roof and which don’t smell of damp.

  Back in his room he selects a book from the shelf, opens it, reads a few lines and returns it. Books exercise the mind, not the body. He knows from experience that his recent lapses in concentration result from a lack of physical exercise that borders on laziness.

  Ten minutes later he emerges from the hut in Luftwaffe training shorts, a vest and light shoes. He glances up and down the track. Seeing nobody, he commences a slow, steady trot.

  He runs for fifteen minutes and then stops for a break, bending over, bracing his arms on his knees and breathing deeply. The air is cold; his lungs hurt; he is short of breath and his calves ache. It shocks him that he is so unfit. He hasn’t run properly since his training days. Running on the spot on a U-boat’s steel deck is no substitute for this.

  Retracing his steps at a less intense pace he hears an engine, perhaps a motorbike. Long before it appears he veers off into sparse woodland and runs again.

  The run, that becomes a hobbling walk, brings him to calm water. The air is fresh but has the odour of damp vegetation, not at all like the sea. He is sure he is at the edge of a long lake or a wide river. Its far bank is no more than a kilometre away. Its ends – if it has ends – are so far away he cannot see them.

  He sits on the bank, dangling bare legs in the water like his crew do on safe, sunny days. It reminds him of two boys on the banks of a canal, side by side with their feet in brown water. Boys who are the best of friends. Boys who share bread and sausage.

  That thing people say: War changes people – trite but true. It is not just Walter who has changed. He, Theo, has changed too, a change that started in the mines when he encountered accidents, some of them fatal. Accidents happen, his father had said. But this war is no accident. Shooting and bombing are deliberate acts.

  Back on the track he reaches the barrack hut at the same time as a man riding a bicycle. The man is old, and dressed in the white trousers and gold-buttoned tunic of an officer’s orderly. The bicycle he rides has a carrying frame on its front, and noticing Theo he steps from the machine and leans it against the hut wall. He salutes, then heaves a hamper-like basket out of the carrying frame and stands holding it, as if waiting for orders.

  The man has difficulty carrying the basket so Theo opens the hut door for him and attempts to take the basket. The man shrugs him off, tightens his grip, and mumbling apologies he heads for Theo’s room. He sets the basket down, clicks heels, executes a smart but slow about-turn and leaves.

  Despite having travelled on the front of a bicycle, the meal is one of the best Theo has ever eaten. The food is hot, it is cooked properly and tastes fresh – produce, he suspects, from the farm they passed.

  Next morning Theo wakes early. In the chill of the washroom he shaves himself cautiously, his new safety razor – thankfully with a new blade – skates over tender flesh. In his room he dresses self-consciously in a uniform that still feels to him more like ceremonial dress than real clothes. The cap is stiff and uncomfortable. The calf-length black leather boots make him feel like a horseman. Finally he heaves the greatcoat on to his shoulders. It is heavy and restricts movement.

  As he fastens the long row of buttons up the front of the greatcoat the aged orderly brings a breakfast of bread, sausage, egg, and lukewarm coffee in a white china pot. The man apologises for interrupting him, places the tray in the room, and then departs.

  Soon Walter comes. A harsh-smelling roll-up protrudes from his lips and he attempts to talk without removing it. He splutters, coughs, takes it out and replaces it, this time holding it between finger and thumb with his little finger extended like a tea-drinking Englishman. He takes down a metal mug from the bookshelf, fills it with coffee, sips it and complains it is cold. Placing the pot on the top of the stove he realises that it, too, is cold. He opens the top, looks inside, and curses. The criticism Theo expects for letting the stove go out doesn’t come. Instead Walter is pensive. He walks to the window and looks out through the hole in the paint.

  ‘What do you know about our Reichsmarschall, Theodor?’

  ‘I know what all men know, that he commands our air forces. He holds the highest military rank in the Reich. I know he was one of the Führer’s strongest supporters when he first formed the Party.’

  ‘He still is one of Hitler’s strongest supporters. What is not so well known about the Reichsmarschall is that he is a collector of art. Did you know that?’

  ‘I know nothing more about him.’

  ‘He is an avid collector. Fanatical, some say. He and our Führer compete for the best items. They trade, they come to agreements. As you can imagine, our Führer gets the pieces he wants. At least, those he knows about.’

  ‘They still do this? They play with trinkets while our country is threatened?’

  ‘They have civilian and military units to doing it for them. The spoils of war, Theodor… Hauptmann Vogel.’

  Theo knows from trusted colleagues that agents of the Reich take art from churches, museums and mansions. He has heard the expression they use – purchased at gunpoint – and he has laughed at it with the rest of them. It is right, they all agreed, that the conqueror takes all.

  Theo waits for more. Walter opens the window and empties the cold coffee outside.

  ‘Why are you telling me this? There are many things it is better not to know. I have no interest in the affairs of our leaders. I am an officer in the Kriegsmarine. I hold minor rank.’

  Walter stays facing the window. It is still open and he is looking outside.

  ‘No, you are an officer in the Luftwaffe. Listen to what I have to say and
keep your thoughts to yourself, your opinions are of no importance. I have been told you were present in Potsdam when the truck that brought us here was loaded with those wooden crates, is that correct?’

  ‘It is correct. The crates contain art treasures.’

  Walter falls silent. His expression hardens. Theo realises, too late, that his comment was gratuitous and stupid. Inwardly he blames tiredness.

  ‘And you learned this from whom?’ Walter asks. ‘The Generalmajor?’

  ‘Not from the Generalmajor.’

  ‘Then from whom? You have spoken to nobody.’ Walter turns and stares. ‘From the guard in the truck? You were with him, of course.’

  ‘From nobody. I made a simple guess. You are talking of treasure of the Reich and of wooden crates.’

  ‘Very well. We travelled here with the last of the Reichsmarschall’s possessions to be moved from his offices and houses in Berlin. Now everything is here.’

  ‘Where is here? I do not know where you have brought me.’

  ‘The armband worn by the officer at the gate, it meant nothing to you?’

  ‘There are so many armbands.’

  ‘If you had bothered to look at that particular one you would have seen it said General Göring.’

  ‘I can’t read embroidery.’

  ‘Watch your tongue.’

  ‘I apologise, Herr Major.’

  Walter’s stare hardens.

  ‘You are at Carinhall, the Reichsmarschall’s shooting lodge, some might say his mansion. We are in the Schorfheide, a hunting region. You have heard of it?’

  ‘No, Herr Major.’

  Walter closes the window, glances around the room and turns up his collar. ‘Come, I want to talk. We will go outside. This place is depressing.’

  The morning is cold. The air outside is damp and a mist hangs in the treetops. Theo walks side by side with Walter, who despite having complained about the cold is not wearing his greatcoat but has it draped over his shoulders.