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

by Richard Whittle

  Spargo explained about the motor lodge and how Kalman had pestered him.

  ‘He mentioned Letchie. He said he got him talking – though with Kalman the problem isn’t getting him to talk, it’s getting him to stop. He said Letchie’s article almost cost him his job.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have been so free with his information, should he, John? Tell me about the pewter. Did Kalman tell you exactly what he found?’

  ‘A dinner service, forty-eight pieces. The plate I saw has twin shields engraved on its rim. He said all the pieces have the same mark.’

  ‘Really? And the lighter? Where did that come from?’

  ‘He said something about the engine room.’

  ‘So how come you’ve got it?’

  ‘He offered it to me and I refused. This morning I found it in my pocket.’

  ‘Right little Oliver Twist, you are. Is the lighter all you’ve got, or are you playing with me? Are you a middleman? Has Kalman offered you a percentage if you sell the pewter? You’ve got that lighter, what else have you got, the whole bloody dinner service?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing. All I want to do is find out why my mother was killed.’

  ‘And who killed her.’

  ‘That’s secondary. The police can do that.’

  ‘Not sure I’d feel like that John. Whatever I just said to you about shooting, if someone did that to my mother I’d string the bastards up with my own hands.’

  Day slowed the car. Spargo hadn’t taken much notice of where they were going but he guessed they were on the outskirts of Roslin, somewhere above the wooded slopes of the Esk valley. Day braked harder, swinging the car onto a narrow track flanked by leafless trees. Spargo gripped his seat as Day, rather than bounce through the many potholes, attempted to fly over them.

  The track ended at steel gates set in a high fence. Day slowed again but made no attempt to stop. At the very last moment the gates rolled aside and the car passed between them with inches to spare.

  ‘Had you going there, didn’t I, John?’

  Security lights blazed. Dead-centre of a sea of red gravel stood a detached mock-Georgian mansion. There were no lawns or flowerbeds. In place of trees there were lights on tall poles like a floodlit stadium. Nick Day’s own high-security wing. With a metallic thud the gates rolled shut behind them.

  ‘My pad,’ Day said. ‘Bit remote but that’s how I like it. Have to take precautions. Can’t get insurance for what I keep here.’

  Chippings scattered as Day swung the car in a loop and pulled up beside twin stone-coloured, glass fibre pillars supporting an equally unconvincing portico. Spargo expected the wide front door it sheltered to open unaided, but Day already had the door key out. Automation only went so far, apparently.

  As on the outside, the inside of the house was ablaze with light. Day called out a greeting that was returned from deep in the house like an echo, but as a woman’s voice. With keys still in his hand Day advanced on a door in the hall, unlocked it and opened it. Reached in and switched on a light.

  The room had once been a garage. Its large double doors had been replaced by a brick wall which, like the other walls in the room, was lined with steel shelves piled with boxes. On the concrete floor stood large plywood tea chests lined up in rows.

  ‘Don’t like keeping stock here, John,’ Day said. ‘Don’t have a choice though. Used to keep it in town. Place kept getting done over so I gave it to Montgomery to store his toys. Can’t trust anyone these days.’

  Day busied through cardboard boxes, taking off lids and checking their contents. Halfway along one shelf he stopped. Took down what looked like a cardboard shoebox and carried it to a desk.

  ‘So, John. What do you think of this little number?’

  Day was unwrapping layers of tissue. When he had finished he handed over a small dagger, its ivory handle set with deep red cut stones.

  ‘Rubies,’ Day offered. ‘Genuine Third Reich, nineteen-thirties. Don’t know any more about it than that.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Who knows? Without rubies it could fetch a hundred dollars or so. This one, with rubies, maybe one thousand? If I could prove it once belonged to Adolf Hitler then its value would rise tenfold. Unfortunately I can’t. Probably because it didn’t.’

  ‘Who did it belong to?’

  Day spread his hands. ‘Wish I knew, John. But you are missing my point. The history is what counts. Provenance is everything.’

  Day reclaimed the dagger, re-wrapped it and returned it to its box. Selecting one of the tea chests he lifted the thin plywood top and rummaged inside, throwing balls of crumpled newspaper on the floor all around him. Then, selecting what looked like one of the larger of the balls, he tore off the paper and handed Spargo a small pewter bowl. On its rim was the same heraldic mark as on Kalman’s piece. Day watched him intently.

  ‘That’s it!’ Spargo said. ‘That’s the same!’

  ‘What is the same as what?’

  ‘This engraving, it’s the same as the one on Kalman’s plate, the touching shields, a fist clutching a ring.’

  Day nodded. ‘The coat of arms of German Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring and his second wife Emmy. This bowl was a wedding gift in nineteen-thirty-three. It’s part of a set. I have eight items.’

  ‘Are they valuable?’

  ‘There you go again, John. We’re talking history and you bring up the unsavoury subject of money. But seeing you asked, we’re talking between fifty to one-hundred thousand dollars.’

  ‘Even though they’re pitted?’

  ‘Collectors don’t buy them so they can eat off them. The fact they’re slightly damaged can increase their value.’

  ‘This one can’t be from the boat.’

  ‘It isn’t. Do you know your history, John? The Third Reich was growing. Göring was a key figure, he enjoyed patronage and was treated like a prince or a duke. Who knows how many dinner services he was given?’

  ‘Why would a German U-boat be carrying a pewter dinner service?’

  Day shrugged. ‘Search me, John. Your guess is as good as mine. What else did you learn from friend Kalman?’

  ‘Only that the boat had no armaments. Why should that be?’

  ‘You’re asking me, John? I thought that was what they built the things for, blowing our ships to buggery. Anything else?’

  Several things, Spargo told himself, though he had no intention of revealing them to Day. He certainly wasn’t admitting he’d ever seen the journals.

  ‘Kalman said the sub had a hole in the bow that had been made from the inside,’ Spargo said.

  ‘So they blew themselves up. They scuttled the ship.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But it’s not the kind of thing you do in the middle of the North Sea.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m into the finer points of marine etiquette.’

  ‘He also told me the dive cost three million. Not sure if he meant pounds or dollars.’

  Day whistled. ‘Three million? Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s what he said. And that didn’t include the cost of finding the thing.’

  Day paused. Took the bowl back and started to wrap it.

  ‘I know about the finding bit. It was one of the few things Ian told me when I gave him the thousand. It was found during a survey for an oil pipeline back in the early eighties and marked on an oil company map as a wreck, though it didn’t say what kind. It was in deep water well away from their pipe, so it didn’t present them with a problem. Anything else you know?’

  ‘I asked Kalman if the sub could have been carrying gold. He was adamant it was not.’

  ‘How’s your history, John? Did I ask you that already?’

  ‘At school we did kings, queens and battles. Can’t say it helped me much.’

  ‘Sounds like you and me had the same history teacher. Kings and queens and the Cromwell guy. Forget all that, John, think more recent stuff. You must have seen documentaries about the Nazis. At the end of the war when things start
ed to get hot for them they planned to leave by the back door. Hitler’s henchmen, I mean.’

  Spargo knew that. There were planned escape routes. If Hermann Göring had one then it hadn’t worked. He was captured, stood trial, and then poisoned himself.

  ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me Göring was planning to be on that U-boat?’

  Day sighed. ‘No, John. There you go again, adding two and two and making fifty. At the end of the war Göring weighed two hundred and eighty pounds. He could hardly get through doorways, let alone get into a submarine. Another small point is he thought he was innocent.’

  ‘He was the one who set up the concentration camps.’

  ‘In the ‘thirties he imprisoned dissidents in camps. It’s a myth that he set up the death camps. By the time that happened he’d fallen out of favour with Hitler.’

  ‘But he approved of them.’

  ‘Didn’t they all? At Nuremberg Göring insisted he was innocent of any war crimes, did you know that? He believed the Allies would free him. What I’m saying, John, is that there was no reason for Göring to flee. Don’t think I’m defending the man, they were all evil bastards. It’s more a question of degree, some were more evil bastards than others. Perhaps Göring tried to ship his best pieces out of Germany before it all hit the fan. Or if not him, then maybe someone else was doing it for him.’

  Day returned to the desk, slid open a drawer, and took out a bulging ring binder. It was strapped tight with string tied in a bow and he tugged at it. The folder sprung open. The clear plastic wallets inside it were old and they clicked and cracked as Day worked his way through it.

  It was an album, Spargo realised – an album of black and white photos of smart, uniformed men.

  ‘Nazi military elite,’ Day said. ‘One of Montgomery’s better purchases. Bought it from an old lady at a car boot sale.’ He slipped fingers into one of the plastic wallets and pulled out a photograph. To see it better he switched on a desk lamp and held the photo under it. ‘Hermann Göring, Head of the Luftwaffe. But you know that already.’

  Until then, the few pictures Spargo had seen of Hitler’s Reichsmarschall showed a grossly overweight jackbooted Nazi. Here the man was dressed in the uniform of a First War pilot. He was young and looked passably slim.

  ‘Those medals, Day said, pointing. ‘The bottom two are the Blue Max and the Knight’s Cross. The one above it is the Grand Cross of the Iron Cross. Göring was its only holder.’

  ‘What did he do, award it to himself?’

  ‘Göring was a fighter pilot in the First War, quite a hero by all accounts. He rarely wore the original medal, he wore a copy. History tells us the original was lost when one of his houses was hit by a bomb. Shame, that.’

  Spargo tilted his head questioningly. ‘Shame?’

  ‘Shame, John. Shame because there is a man in Florida who would give half a million dollars for it.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting Kalman found it?’

  ‘John, you really are a man who jumps to conclusions. Of course not. I am simply giving you an example of how valuable these things can be. I assumed it is something that would interest you, seeing as you’ve got what little is left of Göring’s lighter.’

  Spargo tensed as Day flipped more plastic. He took out another photo and passed it to Spargo – Göring in a high-peaked Luftwaffe cap, a man so large his military greatcoat could hardly contain him. He was standing beside a military vehicle with a Meerschaum pipe in his mouth and his hands near it as if lighting it. While Spargo inspected the photo Day produced an enlargement. It showed only the pipe and Göring’s hands.

  ‘I had this enlarged. A few years ago someone offered me a pipe he said was Göring’s. This is one of several pictures I have of the man smoking. None show the pipe I was offered. It could well have been Göring’s, John, but who knows? Without proof it could have been anybody’s. Needless to say, I didn’t buy it.’

  Spargo took the enlargement from Day and held it under the desk light. Göring was holding the bowl of the pipe in one hand and a lighter in the other. Though the enlargement was grainy, the lighter had a blotch on its side, possibly an inlay.

  ‘You think that’s the same? That’s a gold eagle?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘There could have been hundreds of lighters like that.’

  ‘I doubt that. Göring was vain. I can’t imagine him using or owning anything that wasn’t unique. Nobody would dare give the man tat, know what I mean? If one of Göring’s dinner services was on the sub, then why not his lighter? It’s not proof, but it’s as good as it gets. Without this photograph your lighter’s worth thirty quid. Fifty, possibly. With it, and with some kind of proof it came from a sub carrying Göring’s pewter, I can put you in touch with a buyer who’ll give you five hundred at least. That’s pounds, John, not dollars.’

  ‘It’s not for sale.’

  ‘I think you said that already. Just thought you might be interested.’

  ‘Do you deal only in Göring’s stuff?’

  ‘German Third Reich exclusively. Göring happened to have a lot of trinkets, most of them belonging to other people. Don’t get me wrong. Like I told you already, I don’t approve of anything those bastards did, it’s just that I now make a living from it. I’m not talking about selling crap to jackbooted neo-Nazis, I’m talking serious US collectors with more money than sense. I’m talking Germans who want to buy back a slice of their warts-and-all history. My clients trust me. I know about the Third Reich, I make it my business. When I step outside my field I’m more easily fooled, know what I mean? This business is plagued with fakes and forgeries but within my own territory I can spot fakes blindfold. But Göring, yes. Lucky for the likes of me he was an obsessive collector.’

  ‘Is this why you brought me here, to show me the photos?’

  ‘Isn’t that a good enough reason? What did you think I was going to do to you, give you a kicking? Nick your lighter?’

  Spargo grimaced. It was too near the truth. Day opened a drawer, took out an envelope, picked up the photographs and slipped them into a brown envelope he sealed down and held out.

  ‘Here, take them. They’re no good to me without the lighter. Let’s call it payment.’

  ‘Payment for what?’

  ‘Information, John.’

  Spargo, deciding Day’s offer was too good to miss, mumbled his thanks and took the envelope from him. While attempting to find a pocket large enough to take the envelope without folding it, he realised he was being ushered out of the room and into the hall.

  From the hall, Day propelled him past a jungle of pot plants and into a sitting room furnished with reproduction chairs, tables and cupboards that appeared to have been selected at random from a furniture catalogue. Spargo expected more Third Reich regalia but there was none.

  Day waved him to an armchair.

  ‘So where do we go from here, John?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, John! You made the first move, you went to Montgomery so presumably you have some kind of plan. As you don’t have the pewter yourself, I assume you will be contacting Kalman.’

  ‘I’ll call him first thing tomorrow and say him you are interested. He gave me a business card with his mobile number.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t do that. If you are not acting as middleman there is nothing in it for you, is there, John? Why not just give me his card, go home and forget all about it? I would not be a happy bunny if Kalman sold his little nest egg to someone else, know what I mean, John?’

  Day’s smile was over-friendly and hinted of menace. He stood up, went to a sideboard and poured out two gins. He popped the ring pulls on cans of tonic, poured a splash into one of the glasses and handed it to Spargo. .

  ‘Back in second or two…’ he said, walking away with a glass in his hand. ‘Best say hello to the lady.’

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  CAN THREE YEAR-OLDS TALK? Theo doesn’t know. He is desperat
e to know where Artur and Barbara are, if they have abandoned his son or if they lie dead in the fields. He tries to see if the boy looks starved but the light isn’t good enough. What he can see is that he wears three or four layers of clothing which, in such bitter cold, is a good thing.

  The boy is cornered. Though his gaze is intense his eyes dart around as if waiting for Theo’s next move. This time it will be fight or flight, a bared-claws leap at the stranger’s face or a fast dart to freedom. The boy is moving, very slowly, back into darkness, freeing himself limb by limb from the quilt.

  Theo moves suddenly, surprising the boy. Instead of trying to grab him he jumps backwards with outstretched arms, grabs the twin doors and slams them shut. They have handles but no locking catch. Inspired, he takes the black leather chin strap from his cap and binds the door handles together. The boy is trapped.

  Theo has no guilt, it is better this way. The boy is scared. Chances are he would have run outside and hidden, in temperatures well below freezing.

  Out in the small yard at the back of the building Theo checks the small privy and then the long washhouse – the lean-to building with its stone sink and deep copper boiler; the firebox beneath the boiler has no ash, it is no longer used; the wooden washboard beside the sink is bone dry; no clothes are hung out to dry on the rails in the roof.

  Nothing has happened here for days. Maybe months.

  Theo trudges around to the farmyard, shouting as he goes. He checks the two barns, the cowshed, the silage store and what was once the piggery. In the cowshed he finds a bare-ribbed, half-starved black cow that turns her dark eyes towards him. So far it is the only sign of farm life. Erika’s parents are good people. They would not treat an animal like this.

  Nor would they abandon Peter. Not intentionally.

  Far across a field a stumbling figure drags a sled. It disappears into woodland for several minutes and reappears dragging the branch of a tree, ignoring Theo’s shouts. Remembering Artur is partly deaf he climbs on a fence rail and waving his arms he calls out again.

  Deciding to walk to the person he swings a leg over the fence. He is halfway over when he hears the squeal of hinges and steps back down. Artur is behind him, at the farmyard gate, bent almost double and looking older than ever. He is heavy with clothes. Around his neck is a scarf made from sacking. On his hands are woollen gloves with more holes than wool. His mud-clad boots move over frozen ground with short, almost imperceptible shuffling steps.