January 1953
The Murder
Sergeant Wilcox of the British Transport Police stood facing the window of his first-floor office and surveyed the concourse of Waterloo station fanned out in front of him. Constable Robinson, the only other occupant of the room, was hesitantly typing up a report on the typewriter concerning a minor fracas that had occurred between two drunks the evening before. Wilcox gritted his teeth as his constable’s stuttering tapping became increasingly intermittent. The prospect of a decent afternoon on the terraces at Loftus Road watching Queen’s Park Rangers had been dashed when he’d been called to fill in for a sick colleague. The fact that Saturday was normally a quiet day had not sweetened Wilcox’s rough temper.
“For fuck’s sake, Robinson, learn to type a bit quicker will you? Sounds like a drunk with a wooden leg.” Wilcox turned away from the window and picked up a file from his desk.
“Sorry, Sarge. Almost done here. Just a couple more lines.” Constable Robinson cheerily ignored his sergeant and peered closer at the word he had just typed. “Do you spell response with an ‘s’ or a ‘c’?”
“First or second ‘s’?” Wilcox wearily leafed open a file.
“Er, both.”
“Let me guess. You spelt it r-e-c-p-o-n-c-e, didn’t you?” He sighed. “I tell you who’s a ponce, you are! It’s two ‘s’s, no ‘c’.”
Robinson inserted a correcting sheet between the original and flimsy and pounded the “s” key over the mis-spellings; hard enough, Wilcox guessed, to obliterate the paper altogether. Taking a look at the open file, Wilcox groaned. A sodding jumper on the incoming at platform 3 last Wednesday had caused no end of disruption. He hated jumpers. No sympathy at all. The train, an electric from Wimbledon, was hardly moving at more than 10 mph when the idiot took a dive off the edge of the platform right in front of the driver’s cab. A two-hour delay while they extracted the body and then moved the train was enough to send Station Master Donne into a frenzy and spoil the day for all of the commuters stuck in the carriages. Wilcox was at the platform edge when they pulled the guy out, blackened face and smoking hair. It wasn’t the train that had killed him. The daft bastard had fried on the live rail. Wilcox had delayed finishing the report but now he had no choice but to get on with it.
“Robinson, be a good chap and let off killing that machine for a couple of minutes and brew us a cup of char, would you? I’m parched.”
Wilcox turned back to the window, flexed his shoulders with his arms outstretched and viewed the station concourse once more. Behind him he could hear the rattle of the tin mugs and kettle as Robinson prepared the tea. Below, the sweep of the station provided him with a kaleidoscope of activity. He was still fascinated by the life of the station and he didn’t regret his move from the Met to the British Transport Police some four years before. His digs were just down the road at The Oval and on warm days he could walk to work. The job suited him down to the ground.
He reckoned he had seen everything ever inflicted on one human being by another – especially during the war years when life was deemed to be for the here and now. Brutalized by air raids and buzz bombs, the civilians had let their hair down. Returning soldiers hadn’t always been too pleased to discover that girlfriends or wives had played fast and loose. Jealous lads, coarsened by the war, had not been averse to handing out a little retribution – sometimes overdoing it. Then there were the victims of the Blitz. A stab of memory churned his stomach.
“That char ready yet, Robinson? Or have you gone out to milk the bloody cow?”
“Couple of minutes, Sarge. Got to let it draw.”
Wilcox had been on duty when the Kennington Park air raid shelter was hit by a bomb in October 1940. He’d left Rita – his wife of just a couple of years – at home that evening, telling her to head for a shelter if the air raid sirens should go off. Once before, she had owned up to staying under the dining-room table during a raid and he had had a right go at her. Now she went to the shelter whenever there was a warning. The call to the police station had come in just after midnight. A bomb had dropped on a shelter in Kennington Park and they needed as many people as possible to help the injured. Wilcox and three other constables hurried through the streets, dodging falling masonry from the blazing buildings south of Waterloo. When they arrived at the scene there were already a number of wardens digging at the smoking ruins of the Underground entrance. Lit by just a few insufficient torch lights, they dug the victims out, but it looked to have been a direct hit and no-one was being brought out alive. Seeing dead body after dead body brought out, Wilcox hoped his wife had found a different shelter to go to that night or had ignored him and stayed at home. The digging went on all that night and by morning curtains had been put up so that passers-by couldn’t see into the pit. Eventually, after pulling out forty or so bodies, they could do no more for the rest who were buried under tons of rubble and earth. A decision was made to cover the remains with lime and fill in the trench. Official figures were conveniently blurred. Forty-five was the official figure given out but Wilcox knew there were over a hundred people in that pit including, he guessed, his wife. He had returned home at mid-day, hoping that she would be waiting for him. But the house was empty and she never returned. A couple of years later his street, including his house, was flattened by a 500 lb bomb. If the truth be told he wasn’t sad to see the back of it. Now he rented a room and was content with that, but the memory of that night sat in his head, always there, always ready to catch him unawares.
Scanning the platforms from left to right, Wilcox could see that there were about eight trains in that Saturday morning with another just drawing in on Platform 10. His view of the higher numbered platforms was obscured by the massive destination board which clattered the blue and white enamel station names through ever-changing combinations. The grouping of travellers hovering in front of the board expanded and contracted, depending on the time of day. This morning there were just a scattering of early morning travellers, mostly night workers, heading back into the suburbs. Most of these regulars already knew the platform they needed and walked straight past the destination board. Wilcox could see an elderly lady with a small suitcase studying the board but obviously hadn’t trusted her own eyesight and had collared a porter to verify the correct platform. At the main entrance he spotted a familiar figure sidling into the station.
“Uh oh! I see we’ve Old Ropey hoving into view, Robinson. Best get down there and kick the bugger on his way before he settles down somewhere. He’s just down by the main entrance at the moment. Chop, chop, there’s a good lad.”
Robinson took a quick look out the window, pinpointed the familiar tramp and picked up his helmet before heading out the door. Wilcox could hear his boots clattering down the marble steps from the office, dying away as he entered the station via an anonymous door on the concourse. Following Robinson’s progress across the station he suddenly noticed something unusual out the corner of his eye. A guard, from the recently arrived train on Platform 10, was running down the platform towards the gates. It was Wilcox’s experience that railway staff rarely, if ever, ran anywhere and this particular guard was running so fast down the platform that it immediately rang alarm bells. Wilcox snatched up the binoculars that he kept by the window. Focussing on Platform 10, he panned down the line of the train from front to back. The engine was idling, sending a faint hiss of steam up into the glass roof of the station. Behind the engine sat six coaches which Wilcox studied with a practiced eye. Great Western livery mixed with a newer British Rail blue and white indicated that the train had come in from the West Country – Southampton, Bournemouth or beyond. Just a couple of doors remained open, one in carriage three and one in the last carriage where the guard had his cubby hole. Quickly swivelling his glasses back to the head of the train, he could see that the guard had closed the gates to the platform and was now in the ticket-collector’s office. He could just make out the shadow of the guard speaking into a phone. Wilcox focussed on the ticket boo
th and waited. Something was definitely wrong. The guard finished his call and stepped out of the booth, hesitating by the platform gates. Through his glasses Wilcox could almost feel the unease coming from the guard as he looked expectantly towards the concourse. He was looking about him, quickly turning his head from left to right and back again. At that exact moment the phone rang on his Wilcox’s desk.
“Sergeant Wilcox?” The familiar voice at the end of the line sounded harassed. “Station Master Donne here. We have a problem on one of the trains that just arrived in from Bath.”
“Platform 10?” Wilcox asked. “I’ve just been watching it. Guard seems in a bit of a state from what I can see from here.”
The station master gave an audible sigh: “I’m not surprised. We’ve got a body on board – a dead body.”
“Heart attack, do you think? Stroke? Have you called in an ambulance yet?” Wilcox wondered why he had been phoned. Normally these kinds of incidents were handled by station staff and the ambulance emergency service.
“Not yet. You’ll need to see this one first. There’s something very odd about it and it certainly has the guard in a state by the sound of the conversation I’ve just had.” The station master’s tone suggested something unusual. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be such a dull day after all, Wilcox thought.
“OK, Mr Donne. I’ll be right down. Meet me at the gates, but let’s try and make as little obvious fuss as possible. We don’t want any gawkers hanging about. Platform 10’s shut now, I see. Could you make sure 9 and 11 are closed off as well – just until we’ve assessed what’s going on?” Wilcox lowered the phone and reached for his helmet. He knew Mr Donne would not be happy with the closing of platforms. The knock-on effect to arrivals and departures would soon build up and the last thing any station master wants is disruption. Any disruption. Wilcox left the office and quickly headed downstairs to the platforms. He needed to keep an eye out for Robinson somewhere on the concourse and haul him along as well. Be a bit of experience for the boy.
“Constable Robinson.” Wilcox had spotted Robinson sloping off towards the Boots kiosk. Robinson looked up guiltily at the sound of his sergeant’s raised voice. He was hoping to have a couple of minutes with Florence who served behind the counter and looked good for a date. Now he quickly diverted to fall in step with his sergeant who was just heading by platform 8.
“We’ve got a dead body on a train, Robinson, and Mr Donne’s getting himself in a flap about it. He seems to think it’s not a simple case of heart attack or anything like that, so we better take a look. Got rid of Old Ropey, did you?”
“Yes, Sarge. He wasn’t best pleased – it’s starting to rain outside.”
“I’m sure he’ll find a dry hole to go to. By any chance did I see you heading over to the Boots and your bit of floozy?”
“Not me, Sarge.” Robinson acted innocent.
“You’ll wear it out, boy, you dirty little bugger.” Wilcox gave him a wry smile.
Together they reached the gates to Platform 10 where the station master was already waiting. “Morning, Mr Donne, let’s see what we’ve got, shall we? The quicker we sort this out, the quicker you can have your platforms up and running again.” Wilcox assumed his official air of authority and control which normally reassured those around him. This morning, however, the station master looked worried.
“Thank heaven it’s only a Saturday. A weekday and we’d be in a right mess. Ah, here’s the guard who alerted me.” The guard that Wilcox had watched run up the platform emerged from the ticket-collector’s booth. His face was pale and there was a fine sheen of sweat across his brow.
“Which carriage are we looking at?” Wilcox queried.
The guard pointed down the platform with a shaking arm. “Third from the engine. The door’s open. Blinds down. As I found it.”
“OK. If you follow us to the compartment and just confirm how you found the body.” Wilcox stepped away from the booth and turned to go down the platform.
“No! No, no, no.” The guard looked terrified, his hand gripping the booth as if holding on to some semblance of reality. “I’ll stay here.” He stepped back into the booth and sat down on the stool. Wilcox eyed the guard for a couple of seconds before realizing that he wasn’t going to budge.
“Right, you stay here then. Don’t move. Don’t talk to anyone. Anyone. Do you understand? I’ll want to ask a few questions after I’ve seen the body. And make sure the public don’t get onto this platform.” Wilcox turned to his constable and Mr Donne. “Let’s go.”
Wilcox strode down the platform past the engine which was emitting a regular hiss from the escape steam valve. The carriages were varied, some with corridors, some without, and were typical of the type used by the GWR on this line. Wilcox came to the third carriage and moved towards the only door that was slightly ajar. The blinds on both the door and windows were still down as the guard had said. With a deft sweep of his foot he swivelled the door open wide.
Between the two bench seats lay the body of a woman, feet pointing towards the open door. Realizing that there would be little room for anyone else except himself to get in the carriage and examine the body, he turned to his constable.
“Robinson, could you and Mr Donne just step back a little and shield any view of the doorway from stray gawpers on the other platform? We don’t want to attract a crowd.”
Wilcox returned to the carriage entrance and took a longer look at the figure on the floor. The first thing to do was to see if there were any signs of life. He put one foot on the lower step of the carriage and one next to the foot of the woman. Carefully he entered the carriage, hands secure in his pockets so as not to contaminate the crime scene, although he guessed that the train guard had already put his hands all over the place. Sidling along the edge of the body, Wilcox sat down on the left-hand seat directly opposite the head and fixed his gaze on the face. He could see what had shocked the guard so much. The skin from hair-line to chin was mottled from a light pink to a darkening grey. While the body size was that of a woman of average weight and height, the head was obscenely overblown as if a large football had been stuffed on top of a thin scarecrow. It looked like the mask of a bloated clown with the mouth making a perfect “O”, the cheeks puffed out to such a size that stretched the skin from chin to the base of the ear. From the mouth, oozing and frothing down the chin and dripping onto the woman’s coat collar, was a trail of white and pink slime. The eyes were wide open, the pupils jet black and unseeing. Wilcox knew that it would be pointless feeling for a pulse. Turning to the doorway he snapped: “Robinson, I need you here for a minute.”
Robinson’s face appeared around the open door. Wilcox watched as his constable took in the scene. The normal ruddy complexion drained away in an instant.
“Bloody hell, Sarge. What happened, do you think?”
“Not pretty. Not pretty at all. Looks to be a definite murder.” Wilcox surveyed the body, trying to keep his eyes averted from the bloated head. There was a definite smell of sweetness in the carriage, something he knew he should recognize but just couldn’t put a name to it.
“I don’t want you to come in, Constable, but can you tell me what that smell is? There’s something definitely odd but familiar about it. Keep your hands away from the door edges.”
The constable tentatively neared the doorway, desperately trying to keep his eyes averted from the body on the floor. He sniffed. And again. Stepping back from the door he thought for a couple of seconds.
“It’s only half a guess, Sarge, but my reckoning is marshmallows.”
“Yes! That’s it, been racking my brains trying to work out what it was. Marshmallows. Well, for what it’s worth I reckon the poor woman’s face and throat is stuffed with them.” He looked back to the body and stood for another minute, mesmerized by the drool drooping from the mouth. Well, he certainly hadn’t seen anything like this before. Casting his eye round the compartment he looked for any other evidence or signs of a struggle. Nothing. No newspape
r or book that a traveller might take on a journey. No handbag. Looking upwards, Wilcox spotted the overhead racks. Normally the racks were open strung like cat’s cradles and while one side was as it should be, the rack above the dead woman’s head had obviously been damaged at some point and a temporary board had been placed over the brackets to allow for suitcases still to be placed on it. Well, he couldn’t go digging around in the woman’s clothes, that’s for sure, but he could take a quick look on that luggage rack. Straddling the seats above the woman’s bloated head, Wilcox stepped up and peered over the edge of the board. A small black box nestled against the curving edge of the roof of the compartment. There was lettering along the side of the box facing the sergeant’s gaze but the light inside the compartment was too dim for him to read it.
“Aha!” Wilcox flicked out his handkerchief and was just about to reach for the box when he stopped. This was the only other item in the compartment apart from the body and could be material evidence in the investigation. He thought it would be best to leave it be for now.
“Right.” Wilcox stepped down carefully from the seats and sidled backwards past the body to the entrance. “We can’t do any more here. Constable Robinson, I’m going to phone King’s Cross and see what the next step has to be. My guess is a pathologist from Scotland Yard needs to be involved pronto, but we better play it by the book.” He turned to the station master. “Mr Donne, might I suggest that we have this whole train – engine and all – moved from this platform to a more discreet part of the station? Forensics will need to have access so could I suggest a quiet corner of the yard, away from prying eyes? And, as a bonus, you get your station back. My constable will go with the train.” Wilcox turned to Robinson: “Ensure that nothing is touched either on the inside or outside of this compartment. Ride with the driver, Robinson, and stick with the train until the forensic chappies turn up. I’ll be with them.” Turning back to the station master, Wilcox asked, “Soonest possible, Mr Donne. That OK?”
A Coin for the Hangman Page 21
