by David Carter
Desi had perished that way.
It was only right.
It was only a surprise it had taken so long for the idea to germ.
Desi had been avenged, or at least partly.
Desi would never be forgotten.
Back in the car. Engine on. Left trainer pressing C. Right trainer pressing A. Acceleration. Away from the station. Away from Mostyn. Away from Wales. Away.
But what about next time? What then?
There would always be a next time.
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Walter arrived late at the police station. He had been to the dentist. His left cheek was even puffier than usual. Karen was already there, gabbling on the telephone. He gawped at her and she set the phone down and smiled across at him.
‘I’ve been to the dentist,’ he snuffled.
‘I can see that.’
‘Anything happening?’
‘There is. Another suspicious death,’ she said, ‘over the border in Wales.’
‘How suspicious?’
‘A middle-aged man fell beneath the London express at Mostyn.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Maybe, but get this, he was a preacher.’
‘That is interesting. Any witnesses?’
‘None that we know of, though the driver glimpsed something. He’s very cut up about it, apparently.’
‘Perhaps cut up is not the best phrase in the circumstances.’
‘Sorry, but get this, Guv, the dead guy was quite well known.’
‘In what way?’
‘Remember that vicar from the cathedral, the one traffic did for drink driving and the papers got hold of it. It’s him.’
‘I remember. RIGHT REVEREND WRONG.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘What was he doing in Mostyn?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you know where the engine driver lives?’
‘Yep. Nantwich.’
‘That’s handy, on our patch. He’ll be taking leave for sure.’
‘He is. I’ve just spoken to him; he’s in all day.’
‘I think we should go and see him.’
‘OK Guv, I’ll arrange a car.’
‘One other thing, Karen, did you dig up anything weird on Marian Rivers?’
‘Nope. Nothing at all. I don’t think she’s involved.’
Walter sighed and waddled toward the coffee machine.
‘We’ll go in half an hour, do you want a coffee?’
‘Nope, bad for you, ruin my diet,’ and she grabbed and sucked hard on her bottle of flavoured water.
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It took less than half an hour to drive to Nantwich, Karen keeping within the speed limit, most of the time. The driver’s name was Bill Brambles and he lived in a typical railwayman’s terraced cottage that hadn’t changed much in over a hundred years. It was two minutes walk from the station, handy for work. They could even hear a passing two-carriage passenger train as they walked up the short path.
There was no bell, just a big brass knocker. Karen thumped it twice and the door opened a moment later. Karen smiled at the red-faced guy, short, stubby, maybe forty-five, thinning black hair, unshaven, bags under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping.
‘Mr Brambles?’ she said.
The guy nodded.
‘I’m Sergeant Karen Greenwood, we spoke earlier.’
‘Yeah.’
‘This is Inspector Darriteau.’
The guy nodded at Walter and Walter nodded back.
‘Come on in.’
They went through to a small back kitchen and sat at a table and chairs, yellow topped; the kind of the thing you can buy in a charity shop for next to nothing.
‘Wanna cuppa tea?’
‘No ta,’ said Walter. Karen shook her head.
‘I’d just like you to tell us in your own words what happened,’ said Walter.
‘I’ve already told the Railway Police.’
‘Yes, we know that, but we’d like to hear it from your own lips.’
Bill Brambles glanced up at the unshaded bulb, and then back at the cops.
‘We were just coming into the station...’
‘We?’ asked Karen.
‘Me and the loco,’ grinned Brambles, ‘a hundred and thirty tonnes of raw power, ten carriages, perhaps thirty people a carriage, and the crew too, maybe three hundred people, I was hardly alone.’
‘I see,’ said Walter, ‘so what happened?’
‘We entered the station. It was very quiet. I noticed that because I thought there was only one guy on the platform. A tall bloke.’
‘The unfortunate one?’ said Karen.
Brambles nodded.
Walter gave her a look as if to tell her to stop interrupting.
‘He stepped toward the edge, but not in a threatening way, it all happened so fast, more like a spotter, an enthusiast, as if he were about to take our picture, but he didn’t seem to have a camera.’
‘He was quite alone?’ asked Walter.
‘No! No, he wasn’t, that’s the funny thing, as he stepped forward I glimpsed another figure behind, he or she stepped forward too, always standing behind the main man. I couldn’t see the other person; I never did, not properly.’
‘What happened then?’
‘We were travelling 65mph, maybe 70mph, that’s pretty quick through a station, there are so many things to keep an eye on. The last thing you want to see is an unattended pram, or buggy rolling toward the edge.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Karen, sympathetically.
‘As we approached, the main guy was really close to the edge, too close, and in the next moment he fell, almost dived, in front of Dodo.’
‘Dodo? said Walter.
Brambles childishly smiled. ‘We call the engine Dodo.’
‘I see,’ said Walter, pondering for a second on the absurdity of it.
‘I slammed on the brakes, an automatic reaction, but a total waste of time.’
‘Did you see the other person on the platform?’ asked Karen.
‘No. We were well past by then. Not even a glimpse. It was just a blur. You can’t imagine how quickly it happened.’
‘Did the main man jump, or was he pushed?’ asked Walter.
‘Hard to say, it could have been either, but the second figure was very close, right behind, out of vision.’
‘As if they were hiding from you?’ suggested Karen.
Brambles pondered that for a second and pulled a face. ‘Maybe.’
‘What’s your gut feeling?’ asked Walter.
‘My gut feeling is... he was pushed.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘If you are going to jump in front of a train you would have planned it, wouldn’t you? You would have gone to that station knowing what you were about to do.’
‘You’d still be terrified at the prospect,’ said Karen.
Again Walter shot her a look.
‘Yeah maybe, but the look on this guy’s face was not so much one of terror, more one of surprise, not that I got that much of a look, it all happened in a split second. One instant he’s there, the next he isn’t, the next I’m past him and out of there. All done, in the blink of an eye. Not pleasant I can tell you. I wouldn’t mind, but this is my second one this year.’
‘Oh?’ said Walter.
‘Yeah, just before the Woodhead tunnel in January. No doubt about that one. He jumped on the track and walked straight toward me, grinning.’
‘Oh jeez,’ said Karen.
‘Yeah, exactly. Why can’t these cranks simply take a pot of pills or summat? What have we ever done to deserve this kind of trauma?’
‘Maybe the guy at Mostyn wasn’t a crank,’ suggested Walter.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Brambles, ‘but we’ll never know now, will we?’
‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’
‘Not really. As I say, it all happened in an instant.’
; Walter sighed and Karen stood up.
‘Thanks Mr Brambles, you’ve been very helpful,’ said Walter, standing and offering his hand.
Brambles took it and shook it; and Karen’s too, and a moment later the officers were outside in the car.
‘Well?’ said Karen. ‘Back to the station?’
‘No. Not yet. Take me to Audlem, it’s not far from here, there’s a pub I know. We’ll have a drink and a think, and a chat.’
Chapter Six
The Shroppie Fly was located right on the canal bank. Walter had discovered it when one of his former girlfriends, Audrey from the mission, has persuaded him to take a boating holiday with her. The one evening they spent in the Fly was the highlight of the week, so far as he was concerned.
There were three or four painted metal tables and chairs outside overlooking the brown water. A group of mallard ducks were squabbling noisily on the far side.
‘Grab a table,’ said Walter. ‘I’ll get the drinks,’ and he disappeared inside.
‘White wine for me,’ she said.
Walter harrumphed.
Karen sat down on one of the cold chairs and looked out across the canal. There were four narrowboats berthed there. They didn’t look as if they had moved since the previous summer, long multi coloured craft with large names painted on their sides. Genevieve, London. RickySue, Skipton. The Blue Goose, Ilkeston, and Sir Winkalot, Chester. Two more barges were coming down the canal in line astern, heading for the locks that would take them down toward Chester. The first one had four guys onboard. They saw the slim blonde sitting there on her own-some and waved and smiled and shouted, ‘Need some company, love?’
But before she could answer, a big black bloke came out of the pub carrying drinks, and sat beside her.
Karen waved them away and the guys waved back and shouted ‘Another time maybe!’ and then they were gone.
‘Friends of yours?’
‘Not yet,’ she grinned.
He passed her an orange juice. His was a large pint of foaming real ale, two inches already missing, in a straight glass, most important, ‘and here’s your lunch,’ he said, ‘on me,’ tossing a packet of salt and vinegar crisps across the table.
‘Diet,’ she said, pushing them back.
He didn’t mind that. He could manage two.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What have we got here exactly?’
‘We have two deaths that could be accident or suicide, in which case there is no case to investigate.’
‘True, but we also have two cases that could be murders, in which case there is one, and possibly two, murderers walking round out there, and that does need investigating.’
‘We can rule Marian out of the railway death, she was at her solicitors at the time,’ said Karen. ‘Let’s assume for a moment we have two murders, and they’re linked, are we looking for a man or a woman?’
‘Could be either,’ said Walter.
‘I think it’s a man.’
‘Why?’
‘Just a feeling.’
‘Keep feelings out of it,’ said Walter, gulping his drink, ‘stick to the evidence.’
‘Ooh, that’s rich coming from you. You thought Marian did it.’
‘No I didn’t. I just didn’t want to rule her out prematurely.’
There was a short silence as if they were thinking on different lines and then Walter said, ‘What is the motive?’
‘Good question. They were both preachers. Someone with a grudge against vicars perhaps? Maybe they buggered up a wedding.’
Walter snorted. ‘Hardly a good enough reason to kill.’
‘It’s been done for less,’ she said, echoing his earlier words, and then she said, ‘Could this be more sinister than we think?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘An Islamist thing. You know, some one messing with a fundamentalist’s brain? Putting ideas into their heads.’
‘Going round murdering Christian preachers? Well, it’s possible I suppose, though unlikely, but everything about this case looks unlikely. One thing’s for sure; we don’t rule anything out until we know different. More to the point, did the victims know one another?’
‘That’s a good place to start.’
‘It is,’ said Walter. ‘When we get back to Chester you make that your number one line of enquiry. If you can show they knew each other, there might be a common friend or acquaintance, and then we really could be getting somewhere. My worry is these are random killings.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘How did the killer know that Colin Rivers would be crossing that road at that time? How did the killer know that James Kingston would be at Mostyn station standing on that platform at that time? I don’t see a connection. I don’t think he did either. I think it’s random.’
‘You said he.’
‘He or she.’
‘If they are random killings we’ll have our work cut out,’ said Karen.
‘Random killings are the hardest to solve, by their very nature. No motive at all, other than personal satisfaction.’
‘In that case let’s hope it’s the preacher thing. Do you think we should go public and warn all preachers to be on their guard?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. It won’t be long before the press gets hold of this. I did wonder if we should call a press conference before they start going off at a tangent.’
‘That’ll create mayhem.’
‘Yeah it will, but it might flush our little bunny out.’
‘It’s your call.’
‘Yeah, I’ll have another drink and mull it over,’ said Walter, and he went back into the pub. When he came out he said, ‘And another thing I need you to do. Check out recent releases, prisoners with previous, and the mentally unstable, care in the community, all that crap. Find out if the authorities, in their wisdom, have recently foisted on us some head-the-balls who should never have been released in the first place.’
‘Good point; I’ll check that out first. Erm, where’s my drink?’
‘Oh sorry, did you want one?’
‘Nah, only teasing.’
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The driver lay on the bed, hands behind head, staring at the ceiling. In ten minutes it would be time to get up and prepare for work.
100 Ways to Kill People.
It wasn’t as easy as you might think, not if you wanted to be creative about it, and that was the whole point. Anyone could wander down the high street and pull out a carving knife and ease it into someone’s back, but what was the point in that? Where was the challenge? No, that simply wouldn’t do.
Time for thinking caps on.
They’d be surprised at the next one.
And why hadn’t there been much publicity?
God, the coppers were slow. They hadn’t even put two and two together. They didn’t appear to realise they had two murders on their hands. If they didn’t buck their ideas up soon a letter to the press might bring them to their senses.
The driver stood and went through to the spare room. Four articles displayed. Much more interesting. Two on the highway, two on the railway. A little speculation by bored journalists, but not much. Had the whole world gone one-eyed? Even the dopey press hadn’t picked up on it. That would have to change. They would all have to change, or maybe, just maybe, they should be next.
Ha, hah!
Would the casino be busy tonight? Probably not. There wasn’t the spare cash about, other than with the people who shouldn’t have the money in the first place, and sadly, there would always be plenty of those.
Time to get ready. Must look nice.
No more bets ladies and gentlemen. No more bets!
Twenty black! Vingt noir.
Chapter Seven
William Camber had always been a loner; leastways he had for the past twenty years, ever since he and Lorraine had split. He had been a late developer so far as women were concerned. An only child, a domineering mother, father in the merchant navy w
ho went away for ten months at a stretch, and was drunk for most of the time when he came home. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising William found it hard to relate to other people, and especially to women.
He always struggled with the five-hurdle handicap.
To meet a nice girl.
To ask her out.
To have his invitation accepted.
To go on a date.
To take it further.
He’d get past one, or two, or maybe three, but by the time the fourth hurdle reared up in front of him, he’d normally have stumbled.
Then he met Lorraine Bickerstaffe.
She worked on the till in the convenience store on the corner. She was no kid, but that was just as well because William was thirty-nine by then. She had smiled at him in that special way. She felt a little sorry for him. He always came in alone. He seemed lonely. He wasn’t bad looking though, and polite too, and she had certainly been out with a lot worse, though she didn’t care much for the whippet he always tied up outside the shop, before setting foot in the store.
The next time he came in she could tell he was nervous. It was quiet that day and that was possibly part of the plan. Perhaps he’d been waiting outside. He’d recently had a shave and had applied aftershave too, and she could tell what was on his mind, though she guessed he wouldn’t have the balls, the guts, to ask her out.
He bought a couple of items and ambled to the till. No one else about. Just the two of them. Surely it would be now or never. He made small talk. Nice spring day. Quiet in here. Been busy? See the Queen’s under the weather again.
He wasn’t going to ask her, she just knew it.
He liked the dark blue skirt and the light blue blouse she wore. Fit her like a glove they did, and she had a great figure too. Was it company uniform, or her own clothes? He had no idea.
He heard Topsy outside yelping his displeasure at being abandoned.
‘So glad I’m finishing in ten minutes,’ she said, blowing out air.
She’d recently retouched her perfume. The aroma crossed the counter and attached itself to William’s jacket.
