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

by Richard Whittle

  ‘That’s the puzzle. He didn’t, and it got me thinking. What if he had something up there he didn’t want anyone to see?’

  ‘God, you’re not going to tell me you went up there? On your own?’

  ‘I knew what I was doing.’

  More disapproval, this time a fierce stare. ‘So you said. Why are you limping?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘When you came up to meet me you were limping.’

  ‘As I was saying, I found a box, it was wrapped in canvas and bound tight with – ’

  ‘Never mind that. What you have done to your leg?’

  ‘It’s nothing. That isn’t why I asked you here. I want you to look at these.’

  He turned in the doorway. Taking pains to walk confidently he led her to his workbench.

  ‘Diaries,’ he said. ‘The police had to – ’

  ‘The police?’

  The squares of paper towel Spargo had placed between the pages of the diaries now showed blue and black stains. With Jez standing beside him he turned to a marked page. She noticed the signatures in the margin before her father pointed it out: Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, in a Germanic hand. She stared at the page, then picked up the book.

  ‘Göring was Adolf Hitler’s deputy. Are you saying these books were his?’

  ‘Göring didn’t write them. The police – Mitchell, the CID man – had some pages translated… well, part of one page. They are all in the same hand, all written by a German naval officer. There’s a date in this one, nineteen-forty-five.’

  ‘Why is it wet?.’ She turned her attention to the other diaries, bulging with damp paper towels. ‘Were these in the roof? Of the mine house? In a box? Tell me why the CID are involved.’

  ‘I thought Mitchell should see it.’

  She grunted. ‘Did he see these signatures?’

  ‘I don’t think he bothered to look through them.’

  She mumbled something. Then, so Spargo could hear, ‘So why would a naval officer be practising Hermann Göring’s signature? And why are they wet?’

  ‘Apparently the translator who took it upon himself to soak them. Mitchell wasn’t pleased.’

  Spargo started to ease more pages apart.

  ‘Don’t!’ Jez snapped. ‘You’ll tear them!’

  ‘I want to show you some other pages.’

  ‘Yes, Dad, they look interesting. I’m not sure why you were so keen to show me them now. They have been in that roof for over fifty years. Another day isn’t going to make any difference.’

  ‘Whoever murdered Gran was looking for something. When I found the package I thought I’d found what they were after.’

  ‘So you were playing detective. Why didn’t you explain your theories to the police and let them search the house?’

  ‘I didn’t see any point in troubling them. What if there’d been nothing up there?’

  ‘What if there was only a box of old diaries?’

  He smiled, picked up Mitchell’s brown envelope, tipped it up and handed the folded sheets to her. She read them, turning them over as he had done, to see if there was anything on the back.

  ‘This is the translation? Is this all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Because the pages of the diaries were stuck together?’

  ‘Mitchell didn’t think they were. Not before he sent them.’

  ‘Soaking them seems an odd thing for a professional to do. What if the ink ran?’

  ‘As you can see, some of it has. I was thinking of throwing them out. Is it worth having them looked at? Presumably my father kept them there for a reason.’

  ‘Looked at? Translated, you mean? It’s an expensive business.’ She picked up a different diary but didn’t attempt to open it. ‘Give me a couple of days, I’ll ask around at work. No promises though. I don’t really know who to ask.’ She turned her attention to the box, crouching down and examining it. ‘They were in this? What’s it made of, gunmetal?’

  ‘Bronze.’

  She put her hand into it, ran a finger around the bottom and brought it out smeared with mud.

  ‘There’s dirt in it.’

  ‘Perhaps the translator used dirty water.’

  Jez phoned next day to say she had found someone who might be able to help.

  ‘An historian, Marie Howard. She can read old German script. I explained everything. I told her they looked like diaries and that one page had been translated. She wants to see them before she commits herself. I warned her they were in poor condition.’

  ‘Does she want all of them?’

  ‘Just one for now. Can you manage three o’clock, in town?’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Today. This afternoon is the only time she’s free.’

  ‘No problem. Did I tell you I was meeting Murphy this evening?’

  Jez fell silent. She had no time for her father’s ex-partner.

  ‘Is he staying over?’ she asked.

  ‘With me you mean? No, he’s flying on to Aberdeen. He has a three hour stopover so I’m driving out to the airport to see him.’

  ‘And you’ll have a few drinks.’

  ‘Most probably.’

  ‘So why drive, when there is a perfectly good airport bus?’

  Spargo arranged to meet Marie Howard in a bookshop in George Street. Needing the exercise he decided to walk, misjudging the distance and arriving five minutes late. Anxiously he pushed open the shop door, strode past the aisles of books and took the stairs to the coffee shop two at a time. He scanned the tables.

  ‘You can’t miss her,’ Jez had said. ‘She’s a career academic and she looks the part, she wears her hair in a bun. Think Morningside ladies. Think Miss Jean Brodie.’

  Of the several women Spargo at the tables only one had the right hair. She was, Spargo guessed, not much older than Jez. But she wore the clothes of a storybook middle aged spinster. Spargo positioned himself in front of her table and smiled. It wasn’t returned. Her cup, containing a pale liquid he assumed was herbal tea, was half empty. He apologised for his lateness. Still po-faced she held out her hand, tilting it downwards as if offering it to be kissed. It seemed too dainty to shake so he held it and gave it a squeeze. She stiffened, and sat even more upright than before. Lines on her forehead deepened.

  ‘Marie Howard,’ she said. ‘Jessica told me you had something that might interest me. A diary, did she say?’

  She pronounced her words precisely, as if sounding the space between each one. By arriving at the coffee shop before him she had thwarted his first line of attack – he had planned to buy the drinks. He went to sit, then hesitated and pointed to her cup.

  ‘I’ll just go and get myself one of those,’ he mumbled. ‘Well, maybe not one of those.’

  He gave her a quick, on-and-off smile and turned his back to her, sharply and deliberately. The alternative would have been to walk backwards as if retreating from royalty. At the counter he ordered an espresso, hoping a double shot of caffeine might sharpen his wits. He carried the cup to her table – most definitely her table – and set it down carefully. Shifted it sideways so it wasn’t close to hers.

  The diary he’d brought with him was wrapped in a carrier bag and jammed in the pocket of his leather jacket – the jacket a present from Theresa for a birthday too far away to remember. The diary was bulky and the pocket small. Standing in the short queue at the counter he had managed to extract it and unwrap it. Now he presented it to Marie Howard, across the table top, narrowly missing his coffee.

  ‘One of twelve,’ he said. ‘Jez said you might be able to understand it.’

  She raised her eyebrows as if taking offence. Saying nothing she reached into a soft bag, took out designer specs and placed them low on her nose. Deciding to open the diary for her, Spargo reached over and turned it to face her. Before it was right around she took over, holding its covers between finger and thumb as if extracting it from a waste bin.

  She started to read, with Spargo following every eye mov
ement. Saw her stop at the foot of the page and then track back to the top.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘It’s one of twelve.’

  She peered at him over her glasses. ‘So you said. I asked where, Mr Spargo, not how many.’

  ‘I found them. I think they belonged to my father. They’ve been looked at already.’ He got the cold stare again as if she had been given used goods. ‘The translator soaked them,’ he added. ‘It’s why that one’s damp… why they are all damp.’

  To make things easier he had removed the separating sheets of paper towel. Though the pages weren’t quite dry there was little chance of them sticking. She went back to her reading.

  ‘Who did you use?’

  ‘Use?’

  Again she looked over her glasses. ‘Which translator, Mr Spargo.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Someone in Inverness, I think. A retired teacher the police use.’ Realising he had the answer to her question he unfolded the interpreter’s pages. ‘Lewis,’ he said, reading the letterhead. ‘He’s not Inverness, he’s here in Edinburgh.’

  She returned to the diary. ‘The writer, Volker, appears to be writing about his crew. They are all young men and they are keen, innocent like children, he says. I’m guessing, Mr Spargo, that what you have here are papers written by a naval man taking command of a German warship. He was expecting a promotion that didn’t come. He says here: ‘No sign of the promotion. Korvettenkapitän Theodor Volker would have sounded good’. I happen to know Korvettenkapitän is the equivalent of Lieutenant Commander.’

  Spargo picked up the translation and re-read Lewis’s words. ‘That’s wrong. That isn’t what it says.’

  Without giving him time to complete his sentence she rapped the table aggressively with her knuckles and read words loudly, in German. People around them stared.

  ‘No,’ Spargo interrupted. ‘I don’t mean you are wrong. What I’m saying is that Lewis’s translation differs from yours. Lewis simply says Korvettenkapitän would have had a nice ring to it.’

  She huffed. ‘That is simply the translator’s style. I said it would have sounded good. He said it would have had a nice ring to it. Same thing.’

  ‘No, not that, I didn’t mean that. Lewis doesn’t mention a name. He doesn’t say Theodor Volker.’

  ‘See for yourself,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to be able to read German to see the man’s name. Look at it, Mr Spargo. If you don’t trust me to get it right there really is no point in continuing.’

  Jez had sent him a vampire. If Marie was willing to work for free he could handle her quirkiness. If she expected him to pay then he would find someone more amicable – not that he would have any choice in the matter because Little Miss Huffy was already taking off her glasses and getting up from the table.

  ‘I wasn’t implying you were wrong,’ Spargo pleaded. ‘What I meant was that the translations were different. Yours is right, of course. Look at this sheet the police gave me. Why would a translator omit Volker’s name?’

  She settled down again, her back straight as if strapped to a plank.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Ignoring him she concentrated again on the diary, turning the pages as if handling gold leaf. Spargo watched as he sipped his espresso. He was concerned she would come to the same conclusion as Lewis, that the diaries weren’t worth the trouble of translating.

  ‘So where is this bit about Göring?’

  So that was it. Jez had told her about the signatures. It was how she had got Marie’s interest, how she had set up a meeting so soon.

  He took the book from her and found the marker he’d placed near the back.

  ‘In the margin, here, Hermann Göring. Göring was Hitler’s second in command.’

  ‘I am well aware who Hermann Göring was.’

  Raised eyebrows again as she read the page. She seemed hooked.

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ she said after a while, ‘but it appears the writer actually met Göring. He refers to things he has written elsewhere, so this isn’t the first of his journals. I need to see them all, Mr Spargo.’

  She closed the book, picked up her cup, and settled back as if trying to relax.

  ‘I thought Göring ran the Luftwaffe?’ Spargo said. ‘Why would a naval man visit him?’

  ‘He didn’t just visit the man. From the little I’ve read so far it is possible he might have worked for him. There could be a book here for someone with the time to research it. Unfortunately at the moment that is not me, Mr Spargo, I can make no promises. If you want to take your items elsewhere then by all means do so.’

  It was not the response he had been expecting. But as Jez had said, there was no hurry. The books had been hidden for years.

  ‘Lewis told the police they are worthless,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mean he said the police are worthless, Mr Spargo? Or are you referring to the journals?’

  He was in school again. He wondered if he should go and sit on the naughty chair.

  ‘The books,’ he said. ‘The diaries.’

  ‘They are not true diaries. I would prefer to call them journals. And I would take issue with the suggestion that they are of no value. In fact I disagree most strongly.’

  ‘I almost threw them out.’

  ‘That would not have been wise.’

  ‘Are they really valuable?’

  ‘In terms of their content, to an historian researching this period, most definitely. Jessica told me she saw the other volumes, though she didn’t inspect them. Are they all in the same condition as this one?’

  ‘They are. I’ve been separating the pages and putting absorbent paper between them. Kitchen roll.’

  ‘Don’t even think of doing that. Bring the rest to me as soon as you can, I will see they are treated responsibly.’

  Marie finished her tea and brushed herself down as if drinking tea left crumbs. Spargo gave her his business card. Without giving it a glance she tucked it into her bag, took out one of her own cards, inspected it, found a pen and scratched out her phone number.

  ‘Bring them to my room. Do not telephone me, I am extraordinarily busy. If you really must contact me do it through Jessica.’

  Spargo pocketed the card. Took back the journal.

  ‘Some of the ink has run in the others too,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised it didn’t all wash out. I’m surprised the paper didn’t disintegrate.’

  ‘I don’t find it at all surprising. I am sure you are old enough to remember Indian Ink, Mr Spargo. It was waterproof, used in the days before permanent markers. The writer appears to have used it for most of his writings. Wherever he has not used it, the ink has started to run, as you say. Also, unless I’m mistaken, the pages are made from waterproofed paper. What I find surprising is that this man Lewis soaked them without your permission.’

  ‘Maybe he thought the ink wouldn’t run.’

  ‘Is that what you believe, Mr Spargo? Have you considered the possibility he thought it would?’

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  THEO’S THIGH-LENGTH BOOTS walk on Göring’s soft carpets, past his paintings, his tapestries, his statues and carvings. This part of Carinhall has not yet had the attentions of the removal men. Now he climbs a staircase, one of several.

  Theo follows two steps behind Kropp and climbs steadily, his mind a turmoil of thoughts as he tries to remember what he said to the man at the sidings. Had he been tactless, or stupid? He didn’t think so. Even if he had, there are others who deal with detractors and those with loose tongues. One word from the man who holds the highest military rank in the land and he, Theo Volker – Theodor Vogel – would be a dead man.

  More stairs – a narrow, short flight that leads to a small door. Kropp taps on it once and then, behaving the way an English butler might behave, he holds the door open and beckons to Theo. A flourish, like before.

  Whatever Theo might have expected it is not this. That the stairs have brought him to a timber-framed room in the roof
is no surprise; that it is so vast and so brightly lit is quite unexpected.

  The loft is unfurnished. There is no room for furniture because covering the floor is the largest toy railway Theo has ever seen. There are stations and sidings, bridges and tunnels. Engines, coaches and wagons are lined up in rows. He corrects himself. These are not toys, they are models. The layout is awesome. He stands and stares at the loops and crossings, the telegraph posts and signals. There are even electric lamps inside the carriages. Near his feet is a model gun emplacement to protect the marshalling yard and its rows of wagons.

  The door closes behind him and he glances back. Kropp is in the room, motionless and expressionless. Two trains are running with a continuous soft buzz, their wheels click-clicking over joins in the track. Above these sounds Theo hears a command, sharp and loud. He sees, down on both knees in a distant corner of the room, the unmistakable mass of the Reichsmarschall.

  ‘Vogel, come! I have dropped a small screw.’

  Kropp moves quickly. Göring looks up. ‘No, Vogel will find it. Leave us, Robert. I have mislaid my pipe, I think it is in my study. Find it and bring it to me.’

  The valet leaves. Göring struggles to his feet, raising himself the way an elephant might raise itself, rolling and struggling. The man is immense, easily the largest person Theo has ever seen. Apart from the man’s size he recognises only the dark, receding, swept back hair. It is held in place with oil and a quiff has fallen over his eyes. He sweeps it back with a fat white hand.

  ‘Come here. Help me. The screw is brass, it is very small.’ He holds a finger and thumb apart, just a fraction. Theo, aware of his awkward, still unfamiliar boots, walks forwards with care. The Reichsmarschall regards him from beneath heavy, canopied brows.

  ‘Do you have model trains, Vogel?’

  ‘I do not, Herr Reichsmarschall.’

  His voice is shaky and uneven and he coughs as if to clear his throat. He hesitates, wondering if he should repeat his words more confidently. Instead he lies face down and squints along the flat floor, something the big man couldn’t do if he tried. The screw is there. He picks it up. Places it on a podgy palm.