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

by Richard Whittle

  ‘Theodor? Is that you?’ The man is squinting, dazzled by low sunlight. ‘My god, I thought I would never see you again. What is that uniform you wear, surely it is not Kriegsmarine? Have they changed things again? Why do they always change things?’

  ‘I thought that was you in the field. Is it Barbara?’

  ‘No, she is sick, she is not here. She is in the hospital, she has been there for weeks. No, it is months, I think. She has grown weak. You have seen Peter? He will be pleased to see you.’

  ‘I have seen him,’ Theo says. ‘He is in his bed. Artur, I am so sorry about Erika. I should have stayed on the mines. It would never have happened.’

  Artur looks at the ground. For a while he says nothing.

  ‘You are not to blame. We lost our daughter. You lost your wife. Peter lost his mother. It is done.’

  ‘Where is the help you once had? Why is the farm like this?’

  ‘I had three workers but they took them from me.’

  ‘Who was that I saw in the field?’

  ‘Paul, my neighbour. He collects windfall wood. He has lost his boy. You remember Jan? He was soldier.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know him. What about the animals? I have seen one cow. Where are the pigs?’

  ‘They are sold.’ The old man wags a hand as if to bat away questions. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘I will get Peter for you.’ He takes off his boots at the door but leaves his outdoor clothes on. ‘I have no wood for the fire, Theodor. I light it only when the weather is cold.’

  Theo takes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair. Cold? How cold does it have to get? A few years ago this place bustled with life. A few years more and there will be nothing but ruins.

  ‘You should have told me things were bad. I could have sent money.’

  ‘You know it is not my way. And what good is money when there is nothing to buy? Anyway, things are not so bad.

  ‘They look bad to me. Is the hospital in Ingolstadt? How do you get there, do you still have the pony and trap?’

  ‘I have sold it. I walk. It takes me all day. So many questions, Theodor! Why do you not go upstairs yourself and see your son?’

  ‘He won’t talk to me. I was worried he would bolt so I locked him in.’

  That the old man disapproves is clear from his look. ‘It will take time. I will go for him.’

  ‘Why do you keep him up there?’

  ‘I don’t. He can come and go. His bed is the warmest place, it is near the chimney and so it stays warm, even when the fire has died down. When the fire is lit he comes downstairs.’

  Theo shakes his head. It is not how things should be.

  ‘It looks to me as if it hasn’t been lit for some time.’

  ‘A week or so, perhaps. I have no wood. I burned some of the furniture but I can’t burn any more, it is not right, Barbara would not forgive me. When it is not so cold I take him outside and we milk the cow and collect the eggs. You see, we still have chickens. I told you, things are not so bad.’

  ‘Where is your axe?’

  ‘Why do you want it?’

  ‘Just tell me where it is.’

  Theo works until dusk. He could fell trees but the wood would be green and would not burn well. Instead he fells the pig pens, first the wooden roof and then the walls, chopping the wood small and stacking it in the barn. Artur comes out and protests. He is ignored.

  When Theo returns to the house Artur is sitting in one of the leather armchairs with Peter on his lap, snuggling close. Together they watch while Theo lights the fire.

  ‘He isn’t a talker,’ Artur says. ‘He doesn’t say much. You can dress yourself though, can’t you, Peter?’

  The boy seems content. If he still fears Theo he shows no sign of it. Though his face is grubby and pale he looks passably fit and well. Theo sits opposite them in Barbara’s chair, wondering what his son would look like if he had been brought up by Erika. Healthier, no doubt. And better dressed – the boy would be wearing clothes she made for him, not ones so ill-fitting.

  He knows he should not think these things. Artur and Barbara have done their best. At least the boy is with family, he is not in a home. Theo takes out his pipe and pokes the ash bowl with a pencil he took from the train, teasing out threads of tobacco and then saving them. He taps out the ash against the stone of the fireplace and repacks the shreds of tobacco.

  As always, the wick on Göring’s lighter lights first time. On seeing the small bright flame Peter slips down from Artur’s lap, walks to Theo and holds out his hand for the lighter.

  ‘He walks well,’ Artur says. ‘He comes downstairs on his own, backwards on his hands knees.’

  ‘I would have expected him to be able to run down them by now.’

  ‘Give the child time. The stairs are steep. It is safer for him to descend backwards. Now, I shall get food.’

  ‘Do you have anything?’

  ‘I have eggs and milk. I also have cabbage and potatoes, I get them from my neighbour in exchange for the wood he takes from my land.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you don’t burn the wood yourself?’

  ‘It is wet and rotten and won’t burn. He stores it in his barn to dry it. Also it is too far for me to walk.’ He slaps his left knee. ‘I cannot walk in the woods. My leg is bad.’

  The boy is still there with his hand outstretched. The lighter is not lit and to test it is cold Theo touches it to his cheek. He holds it out and the boy takes it. Examines it. Walks to a corner with it and sits down on the floor. He tries to press down the striker but his fingers are not strong enough. He is safe. It will not light.

  Letting Peter play with the lighter has broken down barriers. That night Theo places a mattress on the floor near Peter’s bed, and when he is sure the child is asleep he turns up the oil lamp, takes out a notebook and starts to write; here he can record things safely; at Carinhall the risk was too great.

  Lying face down on the mattress Theo describes his journey from Bremen, his encounter with the Generalmajor and his meeting with Walter. He writes about Göring and the model trains. He describes the bunker, the packing cases and the journey with Walter on Göring’s train. He wants to write about Peter but the flame of the lamp dims and turns red and smoky. The lamp has run out of oil.

  Theo sleeps lightly, fully dressed. When he wakes in the night he listens to Peter’s breathing, breaths fast and slow that keep time with the boy’s dreams. Of what does he dream, Theo wonders? Of six hens and a cow? Of the stranger that scared him?

  Lying in the dark he tells himself the past is gone, there is only the future. It is something he tells his crew when times are hard, drumming it into them, saying things will get better. He knows it’s a lie because as days pass in this war things only get worse, more boats lost, more folk dead, more families destroyed.

  He rises early and walks in the fields. When he returns to the farmhouse he finds Arthur in the kitchen with Peter. Last night he shut in both fires and now they burn fiercely. On the open fire a pot of water boils and spits – eggs again, this time boiled. Eggs and potatoes for supper and now eggs for breakfast, no smoked ham or pork like the old days. And no sausage. He misses sausage. On the boats sausage never runs out.

  He finds an excuse to check the larder and is surprised to see it is not empty. There are eggs, milk, butter and cream. There is also a cabbage, and bread with green mould. Perhaps Artur trades.

  ‘Who is winning this war, Theo?’ Artur asks.

  ‘Not us.’

  ‘Our generals are all fools. The Führer should get rid of them.’

  ‘He is doing that. Maybe they should get rid of the Führer. They tried.’

  ‘So I heard. Now, the boy needs washing. The bowl is outside on the wall.’

  ‘Can’t he do it himself?’

  ‘He is a toddler. He is two years old. What do you expect of him?’

  ‘He is three.’

  ‘He can barely wash his own hands, Theodor. Give him time.’ The old man opens the back door
and brings in a zinc bath he slides noisily across the flagstone floor.

  ‘See to the eggs, Theodor, or they will boil hard. Give me the water pot and then cut the bread. Wash your hands before you touch the food.’

  Artur pours cold water into the bath from a tall metal jug and then adds hot water from the pot. Peter looks on and seems to mouth words.

  ‘Bath…!’

  The boy’s word is mumbled and unclear. It is the first word Theo has heard from him.

  ‘He spoke. He said bath.’

  ‘So? Shell the eggs and put the shells in the bin. Now, come on, young man! Show your papa what you can do. Clothes off!’

  Theo watches his son tug off layer after layer.

  ‘Shouldn’t the bath be closer to the fire?’

  Artur slides the tub across the floor, grumbling as he does it.

  ‘You should be doing this. You are his father.’

  Peter stands with his hands wrapped around his middle, his teeth chattering gently. Theo goes to him and picks him up, tests the water with his hand and sits the boy gently in the tub. He cups the warm water in his hands, raises it up and pours it over the boy’s head. The boy likes it so he does it again.

  Theo Volker is bathing his son. Theo Volker, who last month pulled two of his headless crewmen off the remains of the deck gun and threw them into the sea. Theodor Volker, who now wants to weep.

  ‘Don’t play with him,’ Artur snaps. ‘Wash him properly. Or do you think it is women’s work?’

  When Peter is clean and dry Theo dresses him in clean clothes, some too small, some too big. All are old. He suspects the socks and knitted jacket were once Erika’s, they are pink for a girl. All three sit on the ground and eat boiled eggs, now cold. There is no coffee, only warm milk. Peter seems happy and eats heartily.

  ‘He will eat anything,’ Artur says. ‘He’s a good boy. Things are not so bad.’

  ‘Where do you get the bread?’

  ‘When the hens lay well I have spare eggs. I trade, I told you. I get oil for the lamps.’

  ‘I have money,’ Theo says. ‘I can send you enough so you don’t have to worry.’

  ‘I have told you. What can I do with money? Money is good when there are things to buy. I no longer want the farm, Theodor. I want to live in Ingolstadt near Barbara but it is hopeless. In this damn war I cannot sell the farm. Nobody will buy. You must take him, Theo…’

  ‘Take him to Ingolstadt to see his grandmother? That would be difficult for me. I have to leave soon. They are coming for me at midday.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘I have no choice.’

  Artur is quiet. He sits staring at the flames in the grate. He stands, goes to the fire and drops a piece of plank on the flames.

  ‘You must take him, Theodor. Take him away from here.’

  ‘Take Peter? No, that is impossible!’

  ‘On my own I can manage. With Peter things are so hard, I cannot be responsible.’

  ‘It is hard for us all. Now you have fires. In the barn there is enough wood to last the winter and when it is used up you can gather fallen branches. Your neighbour can help you. If the wood is wet then store it, like he does. That’s what you always used to do.’

  ‘No, Theodor, that is what Barbara and I used to do, we did it together. Do you know how much fuel I need to keep that fire in?’

  Theo nods. He knows very well. Despite what he said he knows the wood he cut will last two or three months, perhaps to early Spring. Then what? Cut down the cowshed and then the barn? There will be no farm left to sell. And anyway, he has been watching Artur moving around. The man could not possibly wield a felling axe.

  ‘It is not good for the boy here,’ Artur says. ‘He needs company. He needs other children.’

  Theo wants to nod but he dare not. Though he is shocked by the conditions he has seen much worse; when he was a child he knew boys who lived like this. Farms have mud and dirt and they stink. Farm children get muddy and dirty, they can stink like the animals.

  ‘I can’t take him. You know I can’t.’

  ‘Then you must do something. Take him to your parents.’

  ‘I can’t do that. My father has lung disease. My mother has problems of her own.’

  ‘Perhaps there is somewhere for him in Ingolstadt?’

  ‘Are you suggesting an orphanage, Artur? How can you say that, after all you have done for him? He is not an orphan. He has a father.’

  ‘And you are that father, Theodor. You must take him.’

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  SPARGO LEFT DAY’S FORTIFIED HOUSE in a taxi summoned and paid for by Day. He was almost home when he remembered his car was still parked in the dark street with the archways. He diverted the taxi. When it arrived he foolishly paid the driver, asking him to stay while he checked his car. The moment Spargo slammed the taxi door the man pulled away from the kerb and was gone.

  Luckily the Volvo was untouched and it started first time. Spargo pulled away quickly. Didn’t notice the small car parked in the shadows.

  Home again, Spargo did his customary check. It had become a habit to pull onto his parking space, leave the car headlights on, walk to the front door, put the key in the lock and double-turn it. He did it now. Then, car locked and safe, he went through the house, checked all the rooms but didn’t bother to go out to check the basement. He did, however, kneel down and look under his bed. Didn’t find any bodies.

  Amongst the many thoughts that kept Spargo awake that night was the memory of a jigsaw puzzle he bought from a jumble sale when he was young. He’d struggled to complete it only to realise, after hours of trying, that the box held pieces from more than one picture. Was that what was happening now? Was he jumbling together pieces from two – or maybe more – different puzzles? Was it possible the deaths were unconnected?

  A late flight into Edinburgh Airport droned overhead, diverted from its usual flight path up the Firth of Forth. As the sound of its engines faded away Spargo finally lost track of his thoughts and fell asleep.

  At some stage in the night in his half-awake dozing, Spargo decided, rightly or wrongly, that the clues to all of this lay with Lewis. The man had deliberately misinterpreted the journal page. He had soaked the journals in the hope it would make them unreadable.

  There was no point talking to Quinn about Lewis. Not only did they not get on with each other, from what Quinn said it was clear the police were treating Lewis’s death as a hit and run. Did Lewis have family, he wondered?

  First thing next morning he went for the copy of Lewis’s letter Mitchell had given him. He had made another copy for Marie and as far as he could recall he’d returned it to a tray on his desk. It was not there now. He checked the photocopier. It wasn’t there either. Then he remembered the police had taken some of his things, they had listed them on an official receipt he had clamped to the fridge with a magnet. The list was still there and he checked it. There was no mention of the letter.

  The more Spargo searched, the more he was convinced the letter had been stolen. It seemed so obvious now. They – whoever they were – had been in his house, they had found Lewis’s papers and the letter-heading address. They went there and watched his movements – and when the time was right they ran him down.

  He could get Lewis’s address from Marie, he supposed, or he could call Quinn or Mitchell. Not wanting to call either of them he tried Marie’s number but got voicemail. Then, realising there could be a low-tech solution to his problem, he reached for the phone book and found Lewis. Found hundreds. Knew that without an initial he hadn’t a chance.

  He tried Marie again and then, plucking up courage, called Mitchell. The phone rang several times before it was answered. Mitchell wasn’t there. And no, they had no idea where he was or when he was coming back. But they could take a message.

  Quinn had said Lewis was buried in Piershill, a large cemetery on the east side of Edinburgh. Cemeteries have chapels, they have books of remembrance. Staff there would
remember a recent burial, and if not they might know the name of the undertakers. It was a long shot, but one worth trying. It wasn’t as if he had much else to do.

  When Spargo reached London Road he had second thoughts. The skies had darkened and rain fell so heavily the car’s wipers had trouble coping. Just as he decided to turn in the road and go home he realised he had just driven past the dark stone gateposts of Piershill. A tight U-turn brought him close to them and he parked. Walked to his boot for his umbrella. It wasn’t there.

  Sure the trees in the cemetery would shelter him he walked in through the gates. To his left was a cottage, once a keeper’s lodge but now a monumental masons’ showroom. A wheelbarrow full of swept-up leaves stood abandoned nearby. At this time of year the trees wouldn’t give much shelter.

  There was no office, nobody to ask. Hoping to find someone who might know he set off along paths dressed with red chippings, their colour clashing uncomfortably with the grass and the dour grey of the headstones. Somewhere to his left a train rumbled through a cutting on its way to Waverley; high overhead a helicopter droned westwards, its thudding blades scything the sky. As his mother would have said, no peace for the wicked. None for the good either, not here, not with noise like that.

  In contrast to the ancient graveyards in Edinburgh’s Old Town, Piershill was positively bright. No prison-bar, padlocked tombs here. Burke and Hare, Spargo thought – Edinburgh’s Tomb Raiders. He smiled at his joke and then, remembering where he was, adopted a suitable, sombre expression.

  Wishing he had worn boots he crossed between old monuments and glanced at inscriptions. So many children, victims of child killers diphtheria, whooping cough and smallpox. So much for the so-called good old days. Better to have noise, traffic, trains and helicopters. And real medical care.

  Half an hour later and soaked to his skin, Spargo still searched. He had exhausted the newer burials and was back in the old part of the cemetery, convinced Lewis was buried in a reserved plot, perhaps a family grave – or else Quinn had got it wrong and Lewis was buried elsewhere.