by Ken Follett
"Sir!"
Bloggs walked toward him, then broke into a run.
"What have you found?"
"It might be your man Parkin."
Bloggs climbed into the carriage.
"What do you mean, might be?"
"You'd better have a look." The policeman opened the communicating
door between the carriages and shone his torch inside.
It was Parkin; Bloggs could tell by the ticket-inspector's uniform. He
was curled up on the floor. Bloggs took the policeman's torch, knelt
down beside Parkin, and turned him over.
He saw Parkin's face, looked quickly away, and said: "Oh, dear God."
"I take it this is Parkin?" the policeman said.
Bloggs nodded. He got up, very slowly, without looking again at the
body.
"We'll interview everybody in this carriage and the next," he said.
"Anyone who saw or heard anything unusual will be detained for further
questioning. Not that it will do us any good: the murderer must have
jumped off the train before it got here."
Bloggs went back out on to the platform. All the searchers had
completed their tasks and were gathered in a group. He detailed six of
them to help with the interviewing.
The police-inspector said: "Your villain's hopped it, then."
"Almost certainly," Bloggs agreed.
"You've looked in every toilet, and the guard's van?"
"Yes, and on top of the train and under it, and in the engine and the
coal tender."
A passenger got off the train and approached Bloggs and the inspector.
He was a small man with a bad chest, and he wheezed badly. He said:
"Excuse me."
"Yes, sir," the inspector said.
The passenger said: "I was wondering, are you looking for somebody?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Well, if you are, I was wondering, would he be a tall chap?"
The inspector said: "Why do you ask?"
Bloggs interrupted impatiently.
"Yes, a tall man. Come on, spit it out."
Well, it's just that a tall chap got out the wrong side of the
train."
When?"
"A minute or two after the train pulled into the station. He got on,
like, then he got off, on the wrong side. Jumped down on to the track.
Only he had no luggage, you see, which was another odd thing, and I
just thought ' The inspector said: "Balls."
"He must have spotted the trap," Bloggs said.
"But how? He doesn't know my face, and your men were out of sight."
"Something made him suspicious."
"So he crossed the line to the next platform and went out that way.
Wouldn't he have been seen?"
The inspector shrugged. Not too many people about, this late. And if
he was seen he could just say he was too impatient to queue at the
ticket barrier."
"Didn't you have the other ticket barriers covered?"
"I didn't think of it."
"Nor did I."
Well, we can search the surrounding area, and later on we can check
various places in the city, and of course we'll watch the ferry ' "Yes,
please do," Bloggs said.
But somehow he knew Faber would not be found.
It was more than an hour before the train started to move. Faber had
cramp in his left calf and dust in his nose. He heard the footplatemen
climb back into their cab, and caught snatches of conversation about a
body being found on the train. There was a metallic rattle as the
fireman shovelled coal, then the hiss of steam, a clanking of pistons,
a jerk and a sigh of smoke as the train moved off. Gratefully,
Fabershifted his position and indulged in a smothered sneeze. Then he
felt better.
He was at the back of the coal tender, buried deep in the coal, where
it would take a man with a shovel ten minutes' hard work to expose him.
As he had hoped, the police search of the tender had consisted of one
good long look and no more.
He wondered whether he could risk emerging now. It must be getting
light: would he be visible from a bridge over the line? He thought
not. His skin was now quite black, and in a moving train in the pale
light of dawn he would just be a dark blur on a dark background. Yes,
he would chance it. Slowly and carefully, he dug his way out of his
grave of coal.
He breathed the cool air deeply. The coal was shovelled out of the
tender via a small hole in the front end. Later, perhaps, the fireman
would have to enter the tender, when the pile of fuel got lower. Faber
was safe for now.
As the light strengthened he looked himself over. He was covered from
head to toe in coal dust, like a miner coming up from the pit. Somehow
he had to wash and change his clothes.
He chanced a peep over the side of the tender. The train was still in
the suburbs, passing factories and warehouses and rows of grimy little
houses. He had to think about his next move.
His original plan had been to get off the train at Glasgow and there
catch another train to Dundee and up the east coast to Aberdeen. It
was still possible for him to disembark at Glasgow. He could not get
off at the station, of course, but he might jump off either just before
or just after. However, there were risks in that. The train was sure
to stop at intermediate stations between Liverpool and Glasgow, and at
those stops Faber might be spotted. No, he had to get off the train
soon and find other means of transport.
The ideal spot would be a lonely stretch of track just outside a city
or village. It had to be lonely, for he must not be seen leaping from
the coal tender; but it had to be fairly near houses so that he could
steal clothes and a car. And it needed to be an uphill stretch of
track, so that the train would be travelling slowly enough for him to
jump.
Right now its speed was about forty miles an hour. Faber lay back on
the coal to wait. He could not keep a permanent watch on the country
through which he was passing, for fear of being seen. He decided he
would look out whenever the train slowed down. Otherwise he would Lie
still.
After a few minutes he caught himself dropping off to sleep, despite
the discomfort of his bed. He shifted his position and reclined on his
elbows, so that if he did sleep he would fall and be wakened by the
impact.
The train was gathering speed. Between London and Liverpool it had
seemed to be stationary more than moving; now it steamed through the
country at a fine pace. To complete his discomfort, it started to
rain; a cold, steady drizzle that soaked right through his clothes and
seemed to turn to ice on his skin. There was another reason for
getting off the train: he could die of exposure before they reached
Glasgow!
After half an hour at high speed he was contemplating killing the foot
plate crew and stopping the train himself. A signal box saved their
lives. The train slowed suddenly as brakes ?ere applied. It
decelerated in stages: Faber guessed the track was marked with
descending speed limits. He looked out. They were in the countryside
again. He could see the reason for the slowdown they were appro
aching
a track junction, and the signals were against them.
Faber stayed in the tender while the train stood still. After five
minutes it started up again. Faber scrambled up the side of the
tender, perched on the edge for a moment, and jumped.
He landed on the embankment and lay, face down, in the overgrown weeds.
When the train was out of earshot he got to his feet. The only sign of
civilization nearby was the signal box, a two-storey wooden structure
with large windows in the control room at the top, an outside
staircase, and a door at ground floor level. On the far side was a
cinder track leading away.
Faber walked in a wide circle to approach the place from the back,
where there were no windows. He entered a ground147 floor door and
found what he had been expecting: a toilet, a washbasin and a coat
hanging on a peg.
He took off his soaking wet clothes, washed his hands and face, and
rubbed himself vigorously all over with a grubby towel. The little
cylindrical film can containing the negatives was still taped securely
to his chest. He put his clothes back on, but substituted the
signalman's overcoat for his own sopping wet jacket.
Now all he needed was transport. The signalman must have got here
somehow. Faber went outside and found a bicycle padlocked to a rail on
the other side of the little building. He snapped the little lock with
the blade of his stiletto. Moving in a straight line away from the
blank rear wall of the signal box, he wheeled the cycle until he was
out of sight of the building. Then he cut across until he reached the
cinder track, climbed on the cycle, and rode away.
SIXTEEN
Percival Godliman had brought a little camp bed from his home. He lay
on it in his office, dressed in trousers and shirt, trying in vain to
sleep. He had not suffered insomnia for almost forty years, since he
took his final exams at university. He would gladly swap the anxieties
of those days for the worries which kept him awake now.
He had been a different man then, he knew; not just younger, but also a
lot less ... abstracted. He had been outgoing, aggressive, ambitious:
he planned to go into politics. He was not studious then he had reason
to be anxious about the exams.
His two mismatched enthusiasms in those days had been debating and
ballroom dancing. He had spoken with distinction at the Oxford Union
and had been pictured in The Taller waltzing with debutantes. He was
no great womanizer: he wanted sex with a woman he loved, not because he
believed in any high-minded principle to that effect, but because that
was the way he felt about it.
And so he had been a virgin until he met Eleanor, who was not one of
the debutantes, but a brilliant graduate mathematician with grace and
warmth and a father dying of lung disease after forty years as a
collier. The young Percival had taken her to meet his people. His
father was Lord Lieutenant of the county, and the house had seemed a
mansion to Eleanor, but she had been natural and charming and not in
the least awestruck; and when Percy's mother had been disgracefully
condescending to her at one point she had reacted with merciless wit,
for which he loved her all the more.
He had taken his master's degree, then after the Great War he taught in
a public school and stood in three by-elections. They were both
disappointed when they discovered they could not have children; but
they loved each other totally, and they were happy, and her death was
the most appalling tragedy Godliman ever knew. It had ended his
interest in the real world, and he had retreated into the Middle
Ages.
It had drawn him and Bloggs together, this common bereavement. The war
had brought Godliman back to life; revived in him those characteristics
of dash and aggression and fervour which had made him a great speaker
and teacher and the hope of the Liberal Party. He wished for something
in Blogg's life to rescue him from an existence of bitterness and
introversion.
While he was in Godliman's thoughts, Bloggs phoned from Liverpool to
say that Die Nadel had slipped through the net, and Parkin had been
killed.
Godliman, sitting on the edge of the camp bed to speak on the phone,
closed his eyes in despair.
"I should have put you on the train," he murmured.
"Thanks!" Bloggs said.
"Only because he doesn't know your face."
"I think he may," Bloggs argued.
"We suspect he spotted the trap, and mine was the only face visible to
him as he got off the train."
"But where could he have seen you? Oh! No, surely... not Leicester
Square?"
"I don't see how, but then ... we always seem to underestimate him."
"I wish he were on our side," Godliman muttered.
"Have you got the ferry covered?"
"Yes."
"He won't use it, of course too obvious. He's more likely to steal a
boat. On the other hand, he may still be heading for Inverness."
"I've alerted the police up there."
"Good. But look, I don't think we can make any assumptions about his
destination. Let's keep an open mind."
"Agreed."
Godliman stood, picked up the phone, and began to pace the carpet.
"Also, don't assume it was he who got off the train on the wrong side.
Work on the premise that he got off before, at, or after Liverpool."
Godliman's brain was in gear again, sorting permutations and
possibilities.
"Let me talk to the Chief Superintendent."
"He's here."
There was a pause, then a new voice said: "Chief Superintendent Anthony
speaking."
Godliman said: "Do you agree with me that our man has got off this
train somewhere in your area?"
"That seems likely, yes."
"Good. Now the first thing he needs is transport so I want you to get
details of every car, boat, bicycle or donkey stolen within a hundred
miles of Liverpool during the next twenty-four hours. Keep me
informed, but give the information to Bloggs and work closely with him
in following-up the leads."
"Yes, sir."
"Keep an eye on other crimes that might be committed by a fugitive
theft of food or clothing, unexplained assaults, identity card
irregularities, and so on."
"Right."
"Now, Mr. Anthony, you realize this man is more than just a mass
murderer?"
"I assume so, sir, from the fact of your involvement. However, I don't
know the details."
"Nor shall you. Suffice it to say that this is a matter of national
security so grave that the Prime Minister is in hourly contact with
this office."
"I understand. Uh, Mr. Bloggs would like a word, sir."
Bloggs came back on.
"Have you remembered how you know his face?"
"Oh, yes but it's of no value, as I forecast. I met him by chance at
Canterbury Cathedral, and we had a conversation about the architecture.
All it tells us is that he's clever he made some rather perceptive
remarks, as I recall."
&
nbsp; "We knew he was clever."
"Only too well."
Chief Superintendent Anthony was a burly member of the middle class
with a carefully softened Liverpool accent. He did not know whether to
be peeved at the way MI5 ordered him about or thrilled at the chance to
save England on his own manor.
Bloggs knew of the man's inner struggle he met this sort of thing all
the time when working with local police forces -and he knew how to tip
the balance in his own favour. He said: "I'm grateful for your
helpfulness, Chief Superintendent. These things don't go unnoticed in
Whitehall."
"Only doing our duty," Anthony said. He was not sure whether he was
supposed to call Bloggs "Sir'.
"Still, there's a big difference between reluctant assistance and
willing help."
"Yes. Well, it'll likely be a few hours before we pick up this man's
scent again. Do you want to catch forty winks?"
"Yes," Bloggs said gratefully.
