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

by Richard Whittle

  ‘Good, good! But you have seen model railways?’

  ‘Not like this one, Herr Reichsmarschall, not one so magnificent. Nor have I seen one powered by electricity, only those powered by clockwork.’

  Göring looks at him with eyes that bore through his skull. He is being sized up, analysed. It unnerves him but he holds the gaze, his eyes lowered slightly so as not to stare. It is an act that feels safer than looking away – or worse still, looking down as if he has something to hide. Again he tries to shut his mind to fact he is wearing a uniform he is not entitled to wear, displaying a rank he does not hold, and carrying false papers in a name that is not his own.

  Göring’s stare does not falter. His lower lip is tucked frog-like under his upper one. The man is a massive, larger than life frog, far bigger than he appears to be in the few photographs Theo has seen in newspapers.

  ‘Railways are a passion of mine,’ Göring says, his ample chins quivering. ‘I have track layouts elsewhere in the house and also outside. Perhaps you have seen them?’

  Theo, unable to find words, shakes his head.

  ‘No matter. You obviously know about locomotives.’

  ‘I did not know it was you at the railhead, Herr Reichsmarschall. If I had realised then I would not –’

  Göring waves a dismissive hand. ‘No matter, Vogel. Stop that engine for me. Use the controller, the one on the bench. Tell me where you learned about trains.’

  ‘When I was a boy I used to cycle to the sidings at Braunschweig. Sometimes we went to the branch line to Sauingen.’

  ‘I don’t know it.’

  Göring is wearing a sleeveless leather jacket and breeches, laced below the knee. The breeches are larger than a coal sack and made from fine suede. One of his long socks has slipped slightly. Theo is sure the man cannot reach down to pull it up.

  ‘You said we,’ Göring says. ‘Did you not go on these visits on your own?’

  ‘Always with a friend.’

  ‘You had friends. You were a lucky child. Was Major Wolff one of these friends?’

  Theo pauses. He has made a mistake, but not to answer immediately is foolish. He forces a smile, as if by his pause he is reliving fond memories. This is no time to fabricate stories. One lie will only lead to another.

  ‘He was, Herr Reichsmarschall.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Until we were fifteen.’

  ‘But you kept in touch?’

  ‘Unfortunately we did not. He moved away.’

  He wanted to add that Major Wolff’s father was a good Party man and that’s why Walter had to move. He does not. It is gratuitous information. Just one wrong word…

  ‘But Major Wolff is still a good friend?’

  ‘A very good friend, Reichsmarschall.’ It is a lie. There is no friendship now.

  Göring walks away and busies himself with controls. Something buzzes at Theo’s feet and he looks down. Points change, signals click. Even these are electric.

  Kropp returns, apologises for the delay and hands his master a long curved meerschaum pipe with a bowl the size and shape of a duck’s egg. Göring dismisses him again and concentrates on moving railway staff, changing their positions as if it matters.

  Theo had imagined the leaders of the Reich to be wild men like Hitler, excitable and impassioned. The man before him is not a warlord, he is a tame circus bear.

  ‘Major Wolff is a good officer,’ Göring says. He sits down on the only chair in the room, a kitchen armchair so large it must surely have been made for him. He takes a tobacco pouch from a pocket and presses shreds of tobacco into the bowl of the pipe Kropp brought him. ‘You said you did not keep in touch? That is regrettable. When a man has friends he should keep them.’

  Theo watches. Any one of his personal collection of tobacco pipes would look lost against this one. He could do with a smoke himself but he has left his pipe in his quarters. And in any case, this is hardly the time or the place. Göring slaps his pockets, fumbling and searching. He looks towards the door as if about to call Kropp. Theo, sure he can help, dips a hand into the pocket of his own tunic, takes out his lighter and flicks the wheel. There are sparks but no flame. He tries again and again, embarrassed.

  Göring laughs. ‘You have a shortage of petrol, Hauptmann Vogel? It is a problem we have in these times.’

  Göring resumes his fumbling until he finds his own lighter. Its flame flickers near the meerschaum bowl and is sucked down into the tobacco, which crackles. He holds out the lighter to Theo.

  ‘Here!’

  ‘Reichsmarschall?’

  ‘Take it, Vogel. Your need is greater than mine.’

  Theo hesitates. Embarrassed again, he takes it. It is small but heavy, undoubtedly solid silver. On one side is an embossed gold eagle.

  ‘That is kind of you, Reichsmarschall. But I can get petrol for – ’

  Göring fixes him with the glare of a displeased schoolmaster. Theo nods and smiles. For effect he fondles the lighter, admiring it while Göring looks on. Not yet confident enough to put it in his pocket he keeps hold of it, as if keeping it ready for use.

  ‘It is an exquisite piece, Reichsmarschall. I shall treasure it.’

  Göring grunts. There is no way to know what he is thinking. The moment appears to be forgotten as Göring bends forwards, picks up a loco and carriage, uncouples them and holds out the loco. Theo takes it. Feels sure that if he drops it he will die.

  ‘Designed by Richard Garbe, Vogel. Did you know that?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Reichsmarschall?’

  ‘The locomotive is a reproduction of the P38 you saw. It was designed by Richard Garbe. Do you know it is now the world’s most numerous passenger locomotive? Our engineering is truly unbeatable. And the Class Five… do you know about the Class Five?’

  ‘Of course, Herr Reichsmarschall. One of our locos reached two hundred kilometres per hour on the Berlin-Hamburg run. Truly an excellent run.’

  ‘You are incorrect. Its speed was two hundred point-four kilometres per hour.’

  ‘It is unfortunate we were beaten by the British.’

  Göring turns sharply. This time the glare is withering – frightening, even – a look that conveys disbelief. The man has a very short fuse. Perhaps he is not a tame bear.

  ‘Reichsmarschall, it is unfortunate that we no longer hold the world speed record.’

  Göring looks away and tinkers with carriages. ‘Unfortunate indeed, Vogel. But the British Pacifics are fine locomotives.’

  ‘It was hardly a fair trial.’

  A stare now, inquiring rather than vicious. It is accompanied by an upturned eyebrow. ‘Explain?’

  ‘Our engine pulled a 297 tonne train on a level track. The British Mallard pulled only 240 tonnes. And it was running downhill when it reached its highest speed.’

  Göring’s face beams like a child’s story-book moon.

  ‘Is that true?’

  Theo nods.

  ‘Then it was no contest!’ Göring looks around the room at the huge expanse of track. ‘I do not yet have a model of a Class Five.’ He steps across track and picks up a loco. ‘This is one of my favourites, Vogel, it is made by Märklin. Take it, look at the headlights on the buffer, they have real electric bulbs. Do you know we made these for the British? We made models of their own engines and we dominated their market.’ He takes the loco, returns it to the track and picks up another.

  ‘This one is from Hornby, a British company. It is a model of an electric locomotive used on the London underground railway. It is the same gauge as my layout but unfortunately it is a different voltage and I burnt out the motor. For a few seconds it ran very fast.’ He laughs, mischievously. ‘Come, look at these, they are steam models, they burn spirit. Real steam, Vogel! What do you think of them?’

  Theo stoops and chooses the smallest one, a black shunting engine he can hold confidently without fear of dropping it. He picks it up, supporting it with both hands the way he would hold a new born child. He w
onders if Göring cleans and maintains the locomotives and rolling stock or if he has staff for such things. The loco smells of warm oil and he finds himself fighting an almost uncontrollable desire to say it reminds him of the smell of his torpedo rooms.

  ‘It is well made,’ he says. ‘I have never seen such a fine piece of engineering.’

  ‘I doubt that, Vogel. You are, after all, a Luftwaffe officer. Our aircraft are second to none.’

  ‘Of course, Herr Reichsmarschall. But I have not had the pleasure of working with any. I am a humble administrator.’

  Just one wrong word…

  ‘Don’t demean yourself. Everyone plays their part.’

  For two hours they play trains like small boys. Göring, taking advantage of having a younger, more nimble helper, rearranges part of the layout. Theo stays alert throughout, ensuring the man gets his way at all times and wins at all things. The Reichsmarschall, he realises, is a dangerous, competitive man.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  MARIE’S PROMPT DEPARTURE from the coffee shop suited Spargo. He would drop off the diaries – the journals – on his way to the airport to meet Murphy. On his way home he changed his mind, deciding that the sooner he took the journals to Marie, the sooner she’d get hooked on their contents.

  Home again, he went straight to the basement. He eased the door key from its hiding place behind the gas meter box, unlocked the door and went inside.

  The basement, as always, was in darkness, its only window blocked by dense shrubs that grew close to the house. Switching on the light was always a trial because the basement door opened inwards, and for some reason the light switch was on the hinged side of the door. It had always annoyed him that he had to step around the door in the dark. Some day, he told himself, he would get around to changing it.

  The lights flickered and pinged. Got brighter, slowly.

  He realised, as he returned the journal in his hand to the workbench, that he hadn’t yet looked at the card Marie gave him. Looking at it now he realised she wasn’t at King’s Buildings as he’d thought, but in a steep, tight lane off Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.

  It took Spargo almost an hour to remove all the soft paper from between the leaves of the journals. The pages were passably dry but the extra thickness of paper had stretched the bindings and pulled at the spines. Soon he had them encased in bubble-wrap and packed in an old rucksack. He gasped as he heaved it onto his back.

  He took a bus to the National Museum on Chambers Street, a recently completed building in toffee-tinted, raspberry-ripple stone. Driving wasn’t an option; parking in Edinburgh, like in all other cities he knew, was a nightmare.

  With one strap of the rucksack over his shoulder he set off towards the old university buildings. Before he reached them he turned into a cobbled lane and descended to Cowgate, a low level road flanked with tall, ancient buildings. Crossing it, he started the climb up to High Street. More cobbles – properly called stone setts – streets made for horses and carts. As he walked he checked numbers on doors. Reaching the Royal Mile without finding Marie’s number he turned and retraced his steps.

  The place he sought was set back in a weathered stone arch. Beside its heavy wooden door was a bell push mounted on a shiny metal speaker panel. He pressed it with his thumb and waited. Pressed it again. A tinny, possibly male voice, asked his business.

  ‘I’ve got books for Marie Howard,’ he said. ‘My name’s Spargo.’

  The lock clunked and he shoved the door with his foot. It opened more easily than expected and crashed back against the wall, a move earning him a frown from the man at the reception desk. Following the man’s directions Spargo ventured along corridors on floors of black boards; the building was old and the boards sloped sideways, causing him to realign himself constantly, like driving a car with a steering fault. He found the right door, tapped on it and opened it.

  The building was once a private house. The room Spargo entered had been a sitting- or dining room and had two tall sash windows facing north; any views it might once have had were now blocked by the grey concrete wall of a building a few feet away. The ornate plaster mouldings on the ceiling had been painted so many times the paint was peeling away in onion-like layers.

  What had once been a family home was now bleak and institutional, dark and unloved. Utilitarian furniture, none of which matched, stood around the room as if placed there by removal men and not yet rearranged. Large cardboard boxes, stacked in every spare space, were still sealed with tape. Others had been ripped open and rifled through, their contents stacked untidily beside them. Shoe-horned between the box piles were two wooden desks and at one of them sat a young woman. Early twenties, Spargo guessed. He took a couple of steps towards her. Floorboards creaked.

  ‘My name’s Spargo,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve brought books for Marie.’

  ‘Marie’s out. Don’t know when she’ll be back. She said put the books on her desk.’

  Spargo slipped the rucksack off his shoulder. When it was halfway off he lost his grip and the bag, with its journals, hit the boards with a thud.

  ‘They said it was temporary,’ the young woman said, as if conscious of the state of the place. ‘So we didn’t unpack. That was twelve months ago.’

  Spargo too, decided not to unpack. He dragged the rucksack across the floor, shoved it in beside Marie’s desk, and asked for them to be pointed out to Marie.

  Murphy’s blond hair had receded since the two men last met. To Spargo, his old colleague looked even shorter than when they last met, an illusion – possibly – brought about by his increase in bulk and the quilted yellow jacket he wore. Humpty Dumpty on steroids.

  ‘Hi, Old Man!’ Humpty called out as Spargo approached. ‘Shit luck about your mother. They got anyone?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘World’s full of weirdoes. How’s work?’

  ‘Plodding. Still doing a bit for Parsons. And there’s always the Palumbo job.’

  ‘That’s still going?’

  ‘For ever and ever. Not much money in it now, about one day a month. Two or three if I’m lucky.’ They walked to the escalator and made for one of the airport’s bars where they pulled out chairs, slumping in them casually with their legs outstretched. ‘There’s something else in the offing,’ Spargo added. ‘Could be big. Ever heard of a company called BarConSA?’

  Murphy shook his head. ‘Can’t say I have. What is it, mining?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘Sounds Spanish? South American?’

  ‘Based in Madrid. I’ve been to see them.’

  ‘Getting yourself a serious job at last.’

  Spargo hesitated. Didn’t like counting his chickens. He wondered, for the first time ever, if Jez’s distrust of Murphy had substance after all, and if confiding in him about jobs yet to come was wise.

  ‘Doubt it,’ he said. ‘Sounds a bit like the Deep Vanguard thing, remember it? Made a big show of the drilling and then fled with the cash?’

  ‘I remember it well. Unforeseen geological problems...’

  ‘My very words to Jez.’

  ‘It’s what they all say. How is Jessica, still at university?’

  ‘You could say that. She got her doctorate and then took a lecturing post. Doing quite well for herself by all accounts.’

  ‘Didn’t she do geology?’

  Spargo nodded. ‘She’s dabbling in some forensic thing at the moment, trying to set up a new course.’

  ‘Analysing mud from shoes.’

  ‘Don’t let her hear you say that. That’s exactly what I said and she wasn’t amused. She’s good, Murph. You know what she’s like. Once she gets her teeth into something.’

  ‘Like father like daughter.’

  ‘She tells me forensic geology has become quite a science.’

  ‘It’s still analysing mud from shoes.’

  ‘She’d be the first to admit it’s routine. Sounds to me like the more she does the more the police come to her. She’s just do
ne an interesting hit and run. Found three distinct soil types in the muck left in the road after the smash.’

  ‘That’s fine if you’ve got control samples. For it to be any use you’d need a database of soil descriptions from every square metre of Britain.’

  ‘Not if you’ve got dirt from a suspect vehicle. She says you’d be surprised how much muck collects in crevices under wheel arches.’

  ‘The first thing I’d do is find a car wash and blast all the shit from under the wings.’

  ‘That’s because you think like a criminal. They don’t though, do they? They don’t always think straight.’

  ‘Does this mean she’s friendly with coppers?’

  ‘There’s one in particular. Not sure she’s that friendly with him – though he might be preferable to the article she’s with at the moment. Calls himself a communications executive. Not sure what that is and I don’t want to ask.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re running the girl’s life for her. Get your arse out of her road. Let her do her own thing.’

  ‘You don’t know her, Murph. She takes no notice of what I say. So you’re off to Oslo? What time’s the flight?’

  Murphy looked at his watch. ‘If you’re worrying about not having time for a few jars, I told you, I’ve got three bloody hours. Aberdeen tonight, meeting first thing tomorrow. I promised a colleague back home I would look at a drilling motor at Hughes. Then I’m booked out to Oslo.’

  The evening was something of a success, plenty of reminiscing and swapping news. Murphy hadn’t been the right business partner for Spargo. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a friend. Of sorts.

  Taking the bus to the airport had been a good move. Spargo had every intention of catching it back into town but when the time came to leave, the skies opened. With the back of his jacket tugged up over his head he dashed through the downpour to the line-up of taxies.

  Twenty minutes later he dashed again, up the path beside his car. As he did so the security light high on the corner of his house came on, and in its light Spargo took the steps to his front door in one single leap. In the shelter of the stone canopy over the door he searched for his keys, found them, inserted one in the lock, started to turn it, and froze.