The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park
Page 22
Factual. To the point. What Reader’s Digest readers might call epigrammatic.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
THEO TAKES OFF HIS CAP and runs a hand through his hair. Walter really is an unknown quantity, friendly chats one minute and vile threats the next. The thought crosses his mind fleetingly that Walter is fooling everyone and is an enemy agent. The idea is laughable. It is replaced immediately by the more reasonable, but equally disturbing, explanation that Walter is SS or Gestapo.
The bunker they are in has more than one room; Walter has gone, down a short corridor; lights come on and go off and after a few more minutes he returns, ushering Theo out through the steel door and closing it behind them. He slips back his cuff and checks his watch.
‘Up the steps! Hurry! In seven minutes Schott will bring our meals to your hut and we must be there. The reason I survive, Theodor, is because I never give anyone a reason to question my actions.’
Next morning things move quickly. Before dawn Walter lets himself into Theo’s room and shakes him awake, chastising him for not being able to hold his drink.
‘You look like shit! Too much beer. I would have thought you navy men were made of sterner stuff.’
‘I was dozing. I wasn’t asleep.’
‘You could have fooled me. For a second I thought you had died.’
Theo eases himself off the bed and attempts to stand up. Yes, he had slept heavily. As for the beer, it wasn’t the quantity he’d consumed, it was his unfamiliarity with alcohol. Last night, when the orderly arrived with the food, banknotes swapped hands. Instructed by Walter what to get and where to get it, the man returned some time later with his delivery boy’s basket stuffed with bottles. Those they hadn’t got around to opening were lined up on a bookshelf that bowed under their weight.
‘Pack your kit,’ Walter says. ‘We leave in two hours.’
Theo rubs his eyes. He hasn’t felt like this for years and he hates himself for having had to be shaken awake – a humiliation for a man who prides himself in knowing what is going on around him at all times. On board his boat, even a crewman passing his cabin door on tiptoe can wake him.
‘So soon? You said days. Weeks.’
‘Smarten yourself up. Shower, shave, comb that tangled mop. I want you immaculately presented. Brush yourself down. Here…’
Like a conjurer Walter produces a stiff-bristled brush he holds it out to Theo. Changing his mind he picks Theo’s cap off the hook on the door, holds it up and starts brushing its fine doeskin top. Theo takes it from him, looking around as if working out what to do with it. He stumbles to the door and hangs it up.
‘You shouldn’t have let me get like this.’
‘Blame yourself. Go and shower. Join me in my room in thirty minutes. Come in twenty minutes instead and you can share breakfast. Here, take my brush. Use it. I want you immaculate, understand?’
Theo is late. Sprucing himself up and packing his kit took longer than he expected. Missing his breakfast wasn’t a problem, his stomach couldn’t have handled it anyway. On his way to Walter’s room he sees Walter heading towards the bunker and they meet without a greeting. A flatbed lorry reverses past them, churning grass with its wheels; an officer wearing the Göring cuff and with clipboard in hand, stands nearby. Seeing two senior officers approaching he snaps the clipboard down to his side and salutes. Walter ignores him. Theo, surprised, returns it with an unusual sharpness.
‘Look at it, Vogel! Look what the damn incompetents have sent me! I asked for two covered trucks. This one hasn’t even got sides!’
It has rained in the night and the sky is still heavy. The man with the clipboard looks skywards as if to see how much more rain might fall.
‘They have provided tarpaulins, Herr Major.’
Walter mumbles ‘Damn fool.’ Then, loudly to the officer, ‘We seem to have no alternative. See that you file the necessary complaint. Now get the damn thing loaded, we must be away before ten.’ As if to make the point he taps his wristwatch. ‘Ten, not one minute later.’ He turns to Theo. ‘If you want breakfast I can still arrange it.’
Theo shakes his head. ‘Not hungry. Are we driving south in that?’
‘No, thank god. Only to the railway sidings at Friedrichswalde.’
‘Where is that?’
Walter stares at him. ‘It is the place you mistook one of our most powerful leaders for a humble stationmaster. The crates will travel on one of the humble stationmaster’s trains and you and I will travel with them.’ He looks Theo up and down. ‘You have turned yourself out smartly. For a submari – ’
‘You should not say that.’
‘Smartly, Herr Hauptmann, yes.’
Troops appear as if from nowhere. Ten young men, little more than schoolboys, laugh and joke, run for the truck like children at play, shout abuse at the driver as he moves the vehicle forwards. Walter cups his hands to his mouth and is about to shout when Theo, unthinking, lays a steadying hand on Walter’s arm.
‘Leave them,’ he says. ‘They’re kids. They are hardly off their mother’s breasts.’
He thinks of Peter. The image he has of his son is a lie, a composite of boys he remembers from kindergarten and the children of relatives. He has seen his child only once. He tries to imagine that baby now, standing up. Walking and running.
The troops, working surprisingly quickly, carry selected crates from the bunker, up the concrete steps and onto the lorry. Tarpaulins are unfolded, heaved over the cargo, and lashed down with ropes. A car stops near the lorry. Walter goes to it, speaks to the driver and then calls to Theo.
‘Stop dreaming, Hauptmann! Come, get in… did you pack your bags? Did you leave them outside your hut like I said?’
At Friedrichswalde the young airmen, energetic no longer, struggle to unload the crates. Some are so heavy that by rights they should be lifted by crane. To Theo it is a repetition of the activities he saw here before but this time in daylight. Again Walter curses, yelling instructions. It is as if he cannot watch any activity without shouting orders.
‘Treat those crates as if they were eggs or little babies, Oberleutnant. You will find it much easier if you reverse the truck close to the boxcar.’ He beckons to two airmen. ‘You two, come! Take our luggage from the car. Find the guard and he will show you our compartments. Theodor, come with me. This time there is to time to inspect locomotives or talk to stationmasters.’
Walter keeps shouting as they walk beside the train. Theo winces. Wants to ask where he can get aspirin.
The train he saw here last time was a freight train. This one has carriages and only one boxcar. Also, though the train isn’t particularly long, it is pulled by two locomotives.
‘Not this carriage,’ Walter says. ‘This one is for Göring’s troops. The next is a kitchen for Radmann, Göring’s cook. The others hold Göring’s personal staff. You already met Kropp, his valet.’
Walter mentions Kropp without malice. He stops, turns, and takes a few steps back. ‘This door, I think…’
Theo grabs handrails, hauls himself up and goes to a windowless door across the corridor.
‘This one?’ he asks.
‘That’s Christa’s, Göring’s nurse. Turn left. Keep walking.’
‘Convenient…’
‘Your cynicism is misplaced. Our Hermann is a devoted husband and father.’
‘But a nurse?’
‘He is also a hypochondriac.’
They walk through Göring’s private salon. Theo makes comparisons between this accommodation and that on his boat, his last command. It is luxury of a kind he’s not seen before.
Walter walks ahead while Theo pauses at each door, stepping inside and inspecting each compartment. Finally he comes across Walter unpacking bags.
‘Your cabin is the next one along,’ Walter says. ‘If you think it is small, bear in mind it once accommodated Hermann’s chief air aide, General Bodenchatz. In better times Göring travelled with his senior military advisors.’
‘You are standing in a piece of our history,’ Walter says. ‘The first of the campaigns to bomb England’s capital city was directed from this carriage.’
‘And now?’
‘The days when our air forces could mount such attacks are over. Now this is merely one of Hermann’s private trains. You might be interested to know that these carriages are armoured with steel plate. It is why such a small train requires two locomotives.’
Theo, still wary he has been drawn into a plot, interrupts.
‘Do you think they will try to assassinate Göring?’
‘Who?’
‘Those that plotted against our Führer.’
‘Göring certainly thinks so. The black Daimler-Benz that passed us on our way here is Göring’s. His driver tells me it is the heaviest car he has ever driven, it has an eight litre engine and ten millimetres of armour plate. Having said that, I doubt if there is anyone still alive who had even the faintest involvement in the assassination attempt.’
‘Is he coming?’
‘Göring, you mean? With us? Good god no! If he were travelling on this train we would not be in these cabins, we would be with that rabble of airmen.’ He pulls up his sleeve and studies his watch. ‘Wait here. I must check all is well with the loading. We leave here in precisely eighteen minutes.’
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
SPARGO WOKE AT SEVEN and showered and shaved. As he towelled himself dry his mobile rang. Jez answered it.
‘That was Mitchell,’ she called up the stairs. ‘Sounds urgent. Says he’s got something to show you. He won’t say what it is but he wants you there now.’
‘Inverness? Now? Quinn said I shouldn’t leave Edinburgh.’
‘He has no right to say that. It’s not as if you were arrested and bailed.’
‘I’ll call him back.’
‘You can’t do that, he’s gone into a meeting. He said you should only call if you can’t make it.’
Downstairs, Spargo tried the number and got Mitchell’s voicemail. Didn’t bother to leave a message.
‘Just go!’ Jez said, frustrated. ‘And take your overnight bag because I don’t want you driving back today.’
‘Maybe I should move up here,’ Spargo told Mitchell when they met. ‘Do you know how long it’s taken me? I was stuck in a jam for ninety minutes. There were road works on the Forth Road Bridge and in about ten other places. That road is a joke.’
Mitchell smiled. ‘Good of you to come.’
‘My daughter said it was urgent. She said there was something you wanted me to see.’
Mitchell had things on his mind. He nodded, absently. They were in his office and he was thumbing through envelopes on his desk. He picked up a bundle of them and moved to the door, gesturing to Spargo to follow him. As they walked through the building Mitchell continued the questions.
‘Does the name Ian Letchie mean anything to you?’
‘No, should it?’
‘You used Stuart Main to help clear your mother’s cottage.’
‘You recommended him to me.’
‘No, I gave you a list of three hauliers to choose from. But that’s not important. Some time ago Mr Main called me about a journalist, did you know that?’
‘I didn’t know he’d called you. He phoned to say a man had been asking about me. I offered to call you but he said it was no bother, he said he could deal with him.’
They entered a room, bare except for a table and chairs. Mitchell pulled one out for Spargo and sat in another.
‘What do you mean, deal with him?’
‘Deal with him... deal with it... I don’t remember his exact words. He said it was his problem, not mine. He was being courteous by letting me know someone was snooping, that’s all. I’m hoping I haven’t come all this way to answer questions you could have asked on the phone. I’ve had a lousy few days. I got home –’
‘And found a body. Yes, Mr Spargo, I know all about that. I also know the dead man’s name.’
‘This Ian Ritchie?’
‘Ian Letchie.’
‘How did you know this?’
‘DI Quinn has been circulating grisly photos. One of my colleagues recognised the victim. It must have been quite a shock for you, finding him.’
Quite an understatement. Spargo went quiet as his mind filled with pictures. He swallowed. It sounded loud in the room.
‘Why didn’t Quinn tell me this?’
‘I’m sure he’ll tell you when he’s ready.’
‘He thinks I did it.’
‘If DI Quinn thought you did it you wouldn’t be here.’
Mitchell had been glancing at his watch every few minutes. Then, as if responding to the mention of his name, Quinn blustered into the room. He ignored Spargo and nodded to Mitchell.
‘Damn road works! Should have been here ages ago, by rights.’ Mitchell stood up, slid his chair back against a side wall and sat down on it. Quinn did the same, dragging a chair from the table with one hand and dumping his briefcase beside it with the other. ‘You told him?’ he asked.
‘Just.’
Spargo couldn’t imagine Stuart Main swatting a fly, never mind garrotting someone. Couldn’t see why he would want to.
‘It couldn’t have been Stuart Main.’
‘What, you think Main killed Letchie?’ Mitchell asked. ‘Why him?’
Spargo shrugged. ‘I didn’t. I don’t. I assumed you might.’
‘Killing a reporter who asked a few questions? And after he’d told you about it?’
Spargo shook his head and wished he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’m trying to see the connections,’ he said.
‘You and me both, Mr Spargo.’
Spargo sat at the table with his fingers outspread on its top. Realising he was fumbling he moved his hands to his lap. Quinn took a notebook from his briefcase and placed it on one knee, licked a finger and thumbed pages. Spargo swivelled his chair sideways to face them. It was a mistake. Without the table he felt exposed.
‘If Letchie was asking about me then he must have been following up a story. What if he knew who killed my mother?’
Mitchell shook his head. ‘No, Mr Spargo. Mr Letchie could have been killed for any number of reasons quite unconnected with your mother’s murder. A year ago he was poking around in a drugs case and got himself stabbed in the arm. I knew him as a kid, he was a wee brat with a history of violence. I can’t say I mourn his passing. Back in his teens a woman was killed by a stolen car we knew he was driving. We just couldn’t prove it.
‘After he left school we had a run of burglaries we were sure were his work. Then, inexplicably, he seemed to reform. He got a job with the local paper and, according to a friend of mine, became one of the best reporters they’ve ever had. More recently we had a drugs problem locally and he got to the root of it, managing to tie it to Glasgow dealers. He sold the story to a national daily. There were things in his article we didn’t even know about – it’s difficult to see how he got hold of the information without being involved in some way. Got himself stabbed though, didn’t he, so someone didn’t like what he wrote. He was on the take, I’m sure of it. He drove a new Porsche. Not many of those around here.’
‘Private means?’
‘Not him. Family’s as poor as church mice.’
‘I don’t see it,’ Spargo said. ‘If he was killed for any of these things then why do it in my house?’
‘I didn’t say he was killed for any of these reasons. I’m simply saying there could be motives unconnected with your mother. I don’t pretend to have experience of multiple killers but I believe they tend to stick with the same method, whatever works for them. To me, your mother was beaten by someone who just lost it.’
‘No, Mr Spargo, I’m not. I’m saying that perhaps your mother’s killer didn’t go there with the intention of killing her. Perhaps things went wrong.’ He turned his head, nodded towards Quinn and turned back to Spargo. ‘Inspector Quinn tells me Letchie’s murder was very different and not the least bit amateur. Garrotting is not a technique I would care to use if I decided to kill someone. It implies premeditation. If the wire – the garrotte – didn’t come from your basement then the murderer brought it with him. He came prepared.’
Questions from Quinn now, leaning forwards nice and friendly. ‘Did Ian Letchie come to see you in Edinburgh, Mr Spargo?’
‘I’ve never seen him before. I told you that.’
‘Not quite. I seem to recall you saying you didn’t think you had seen him before. I’m wondering if things have changed.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘What I mean is that in Edinburgh you seemed to have no idea who the man was. Now you are aware of this man’s connection with Kilcreg I’m wondering if you have changed your mind? Could it be the connection has triggered memories?’
Spargo shook his head. ‘No. I’m sure I have never seen the man. Tell me why I’m here. Couldn’t we have done this by phone?’
Mitchell answered. ‘Bear with me, Mr Spargo. I asked you here – both of you – because early this morning we searched Mr Letchie’s house.’
He left the room and returned carrying a laptop computer that he placed on the table and hinged up the screen. Soon the screen was full of thumbnail photographs. He clicked on the first one. It was a photo of the back of Spargo’s mother’s cottage, taken from high on the hillside.
Mitchell brought up the next, then the next, displaying pictures of the cottage, the valley and the hillsides. Some photos, all taken from high vantage points, showed Kilcreg’s main street as it usually was, and others showed it littered with police vehicles. Another was a mist-shrouded zoom of Mitchell and Spargo, standing in the back garden of the cottage in the rain, Spargo with his face to the sky.