Bryant & May 08; Off the Rails b&m-8

by Christopher Fowler

  “At least they’re not scruffy anymore.”

  “Oh, you think anyone who doesn’t wear a tie is scruffy. Your mother started your toilet training too early. I’ve watched you in restaurants, lining up your knife and fork with the edges of your napkin. And that new flat of yours, so bare that it looks like the furniture delivery van took a wrong turn and never found the place.”

  “I can’t abide clutter, you know that. Rooms reveal the inner workings of the mind. I just thought it was odd that she had left the book out, that’s all.”

  Bryant perused the chapter. “I say, listen to this – the section has been underlined. Thirteen-year-old Annie Evans, a child of sickly nature, locked in a cupboard for three years, left unfed and repeatedly beaten by her employer with a broom handle. She escaped twice but was sent back to the house both times. Died from infection and multiple fractures, compounded by malnourishment. Her maggot-filled body remained in the attic for two months, because her employer feared it would provide clear evidence that she had been brutalised. The property stood on the site of Russell Square tube. Parts of her burned body were found in Chick Lane gully-hole by the night watchman, and were taken to the coroner. Her employer was brought to trial at the Old Bailey and was found guilty, after being turned in by her own daughter. On certain nights just past the hour of midnight, the ghost of Annie Evans still appears in the last train at Russell Square station, only to vanish just as suddenly.”

  “The house where Ruby and her boyfriend live is full of students studying public transport systems and traffic control,” said May. “Funny how everything keeps coming back to the London Underground.”

  “Not really,” Bryant argued. “This guide has a UCL library tag. It’s a bit of light reading for anyone studying transport systems. Besides, you can’t help but be aware of the tunnels beneath your feet when you walk around the city.” He thumped his walking stick on the pavement. “I always think that the system operates as a kind of ghost London, just below street level. Its routes mirror the streets, which in turn follow the hedgerows marking out the city’s ancient boundaries. So you could say that the underground provides us with a kind of spiritual blueprint for the passage of London’s residents.”

  “No, I’m not buying that,” May declared. “There’s nothing at all spiritual about the underground railway, just tunnels full of mice and dust.”

  “But it’s also a closed system filled with dead ends and unrealised plans, and that makes it fascinating. All the stations that were excavated and never opened, the platforms that were used to hide art masterpieces in the war, follies like the theatre train that only ran in one direction. And of course there’s a lot more underground than just the tube network. I heard tell of a huge shelter beneath Clapham where the authorities chose to leave all the Windrush passengers.” The Empire Windrush had docked in June 1948, carrying nearly five hundred West Indian immigrants, ready to start new lives in the UK. Their arrival sparked a national debate about identity, and exposed deep prejudices. “Supposedly, the families were fed up with being forced to live in the shelter, and came aboveground to make Brixton the strong ethnic enclave it is today. You can’t hide people away; they find ways to blossom.”

  “You know your trouble, Arthur?” said May. “You’re a hopeless romantic. You see a bit of old tunnel and imagine it’s a secret passage to another world. Nothing’s ever straightforward with you. It always has to have a hidden meaning. You have too much imagination. You don’t believe in filling out a tax form, but you believe in ghosts.”

  “Of course. What about all the lives lost and changed below-ground?” Bryant’s rising passion changed the colour of his nose in the cold air. “I honestly believe that the rules are different down there. The suicides, the crash victims, the missed liaisons, the romances and betrayals, the lovers parting or rushing to meet each other. Don’t you think something of them has been left behind within those curving tiled walls?”

  “The only things they leave behind are bits of dead skin and the odd newspaper,” said May. “You know how many deaths there are on the underground every year?”

  Bryant peered out from beneath the ridiculous brim of his hat. “I’ve no idea.”

  “Well, neither do I, but I bet it’s a lot, and no reasons ever come to light about why these things happen, they just happen and that’s all there is to it. Now, you’ve had me standing here in the freezing rain for ages – let’s head back to the tube.”

  “The station guards I went to see might be able to help us.” Bryant clattered his stick against the railings like a schoolboy as they walked. “They can pull up camera footage of the entrance hall, the escalators and the platform, and form a sort of a visual mosaic that shows the boy’s movements.”

  “Fine, give me your contact there and I’ll call them now, get them ready for our arrival.”

  “This lad Matthew, he’s not been missing for very long.” Bryant pushed up his hat and fixed his partner with an aqueous blue eye. “He’ll turn up at a friend’s flat with a flaming hangover. We have to concentrate on closing up the Taylor case.”

  “Giles Kershaw isn’t prepared to write the woman’s death off as misadventure. He’s convinced she was pushed.”

  “He has no hard evidence for that.”

  “Well, it must have been a complete stranger, because it’s not someone from her past. Taylor was ostracized by her family because of the pregnancy, but was on good terms with the father. She overcame the problems caused by her breakdown. Everyone at work liked her. There’s no-one else, Arthur. All we can do is keep on tracking witnesses.”

  “Gloria Taylor couldn’t see her attacker, but the killer was also denied the satisfaction of eye contact with his victim. It was the act of an angry coward who simply wanted to maim someone.”

  “I imagine it’s a bit too mundane for you,” said May. “Not weird enough, a woman falling down some stairs. The sticker on her back was the only mark of interest. You were hoping it was a sign that she belonged to some kind of secret society.”

  Bryant pursed his lips, annoyed. “No,” he said, “I was hoping it was a sign that her killer does.” He gave his partner an affectionate pat on the back. “Come on, a quick cup of tea first, then we’ll see if we can find your student. You’re right, of course. We should concentrate on clearing up one mystery at a time. But the missing boy and the book of ghosts, they’re – well, suggestive.”

  May could not resist asking. “Of what?”

  “Oh, of an entirely different direction,” said Bryant, and he would not be further drawn.

  ∨ Off the Rails ∧

  23

  Last Train

  “I didn’t think we’d get you back so soon,” said Anjam Dutta, the security expert at North One Watch, the King’s Cross Surveillance Centre. The luminescent monitors surrounding him showed long queues forming at the ticket windows where temporary barriers had been installed to help filter passengers. Dutta saw the detectives watching the screens.

  “We’ve got a new office building just opened this month and two new blocks of student accommodation, totalling an extra 2,200 potential passengers, and they’re nearly all tube users. Usually it wouldn’t make a difference, but a couple of trade fairs just opened on Monday, one at the Excel Centre, the other at Earl’s Court, and there are a lot of visitors staying in the nearby hotels. We can regulate the number of people entering the station by reducing surface access, but we’ve already had to shut off the escalators several times this week because of passenger overload. The system works on the probability ratio of a certain number of travellers per day. It has trouble coping with unexpected demand.”

  “I noticed you’re renovating some of the platform and tunnel walls as well,” remarked May. “How do you cope with that?”

  “The equipment is stowed during tube working hours, but it means a couple of the monitors are disengaged. When you’ve only got four hours a night to find an electrical fault, it can take several days to sort out. What can I do
for you gentlemen today? Is this about the escalator footage?”

  “No, it’s a new problem that may be related. We’ve lost someone. He was supposed to catch the last southbound Piccadilly Line train last night. A student called Matthew Hillingdon.”

  “That train would have passed through here at 12:24 A.M. The service was good last night. There’s a Northern Line train three minutes later and then that’s it until the next morning.”

  “Ridiculous that we don’t have a twenty-four-hour system,” Bryant complained. “We know he texted his girlfriend from – what’s the nearest point to the trains that still has phone reception?”

  “That would be the lower hall.”

  “Below the escalators?”

  “He’d get general coverage until about halfway down the final flight of stairs, but some networks have transmitter points on the Piccadilly,” Dutta answered. “He may have been able to transmit as far as the interchange, but not on the platform.”

  “He texted her from King’s Cross at 12:20, a bit the worse for wear. He’d been out drinking with a mate and was heading for Russell Square tube.”

  “That’s only a two-minute journey.”

  “I know, but he never made it. I need to find out whether he got on the train. If he didn’t, perhaps we can see which exit he used from the station and collect witnesses from that point.”

  “Okay, give us a couple of minutes. Everything’s digitally backed up 24/7, so it shouldn’t be hard to nail. Most of the cameras are recording constantly. As you pointed out, a couple of tunnels are being retiled, so they’re not fully covered, but we can pick up action on the platform overheads.”

  The detectives seated themselves in the darkened room and studied the screens around them. “Look at all these passengers. Why do people have to move about so much?” asked Bryant irritably. “Everyone would get a lot more done if they just stayed in one place.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” May replied. “You can’t sit still for a minute.” He looked back at the screens. “They’re like blood cells pulsing through an artery.”

  “That’s what they are. They’re feeding the city with energy. There’s no pushing or shoving; it’s so orderly and purposeful. Rather beautiful to watch.”

  “Okay, we have this now.” Dutta punched a series of illuminated keys on what looked like a studio mixing board, and footage speckled through one of the monitors. “I’m starting it from 12:17 A.M. The left screen is the camera footage covering the interchange tunnels from the District & Circle to the Piccadilly. I’ve got another one covering the main entrance, but from what you’re saying there was no reason for him to leave the station. There are two ways of switching lines, depending on which end of the platform you’re coming from. The main problem is that one of the tunnel cameras was out, and one currently has restricted vision.”

  “That’s not very efficient, is it?”

  “Not our fault. Health & Safety carried out a junction install that’s affected some of the camera sight lines. We’re waiting to get the mountings resited. That’s not public knowledge, though, so we’re pretty well covered. The cameras are still up there. As long as people think they’re being watched, they behave themselves. What does your man look like?”

  May passed over a photograph showing Matthew Hillingdon in a brown woollen hat and a long grey overcoat sewn with thin rainbow stripes. “He was hardly ever seen wearing anything else,” he explained.

  “Well, it’s distinctive.” Dutta’s nimble fingers tapped at the speed controls as he checked the images. “The tube is still busy up to the minutes just before the last train, then it empties fast. Most Londoners have a pretty good idea how late they can leave it to get home. Is that him?”

  “Too short,” said May.

  “How about this one?”

  The images in front of them fractured into blurred squares, then slowed and restored themselves as a man in a dark raincoat entered from the right of the camera field.

  “Similar – but no, I don’t think so.”

  Dutta tried again. “How about this one?”

  “That looks like him.” May tapped at the rainbow coat. He checked the screen’s time readout, which had ticked to 12:21 A.M. The boy wavered at the far side of the screen. He was putting his mobile away, but appeared to be having trouble finding his pocket. Now they could clearly see the top of his brown woollen cap. Hillingdon had trouble staying upright as he staggered toward the stairs. There was a brief dark blur to his left.

  “Wait – is there somebody with him?”

  Dutta dialled the speed down to single frames. The blur vanished. “If there was, they knew how to stay out of the shot.”

  “He’s very drunk. Can you get him from another camera?”

  “No, that’s the one that’s out.”

  Hillingdon had passed beyond the camera’s range now. The scene showed the shadowed empty arch of the half-tiled tunnel.

  “There are two more cameras between the boy and the train,” Dutta explained. “One is situated in the short stairway leading to the platform; the other is on the platform itself.”

  The detectives watched the deserted staircase, waiting for Hillingdon to appear. The time readout said 12:23 A.M. Suddenly a drunken figure burst into frame, striped coattails flying. He virtually fell down the steps in his rush to get to the platform.

  “Hillingdon’s got less than a minute before the train is due, so can we assume he heard it approaching through the tunnel?” asked May. “Do your guards stop people boarding trains when they’re plastered?”

  “If they look like they’re a danger to themselves,” said Dutta. “Hillingdon’s borderline. We get much worse. I don’t think there was anyone in the immediate area. More crucially, he probably wasn’t picked up by anyone viewing the monitors. It’ll be easy to check and see who was on duty.”

  The screen was empty now. The stairwell’s fixed camera could only catch a figure passing through. Dutta switched screens, searching the tiled labyrinth.

  “Now, this last camera is moveable and has a large wide-angle lens. It’s in the centre of the roof above the platform, and we can see everything that’s going on. It slowly pans back and forth to build a picture of the level as a whole. Plus, we can zoom in and pull off detailed shots, but they’re quite distorted. It’s really for general surveillance. Our clearest ID shots all come from the barriers rather than the platforms.”

  He twisted a dial back and forth, and the image of the platform shifted from one end to the other. The time readout was now at 12:24. There were four other passengers waiting for the train, a middle-aged Chinese couple and two young black girls.

  “Would it be hard to get witness traces on them?”

  “Not if they used travel cards. They can’t be tracked if they just bought tickets, although we might get general descriptions from the counter staff.”

  “Here it comes, right on schedule.”

  They watched as the silvered carriages slid sleekly into the station. The camera had lost Hillingdon. The doors opened. Dutta panned the device back along the platform. At the last moment Matt Hillingdon’s striped overcoat and woollen hat shot into view. He was moving with dangerous speed. It clearly required a superhuman effort to jump the gap into the carriage, but he made it just before the doors closed. In fact, the door shut on the tail of Hillingdon’s coat, trapping it.

  “I’m annoyed about this,” said Dutta. “Somebody really should have cautioned him.”

  They watched as the student pulled at the tail of his coat, which remained trapped in the door. A moment later, the carriage doors opened again while he was still pulling, so that he fell over, vanishing from view.

  “If you ever see me that drunk,” said May, “shoot me.”

  “The train remained here a little longer than usual. The last one of the night often does that, to pick up the last few stragglers,” said Dutta, accelerating the footage. He slowed it down once more as the tube doors opened and closed, and the train
started to move out.

  “If Hillingdon got on the 12:24, it means your Miss Cates lied,” said Bryant. “She’s been playing you for a fool.”

  “She seemed sincere enough.” May frowned, puzzling. “I don’t see what she would have to gain by making up the episode.”

  “To throw you off the track of something else?” Bryant suggested. “You said she’d been reading about vanishing passengers. It looks to me like they’re in it together.”

  “Then where did he go?” asked May.

  Bryant pulled his sagging trilby back onto the crown of his head. “Next stop, Russell Square station,” he replied.

  ∨ Off the Rails ∧

  24

  Phantom Passenger

  Shiny red arches, leaf green corridors; the tube stations of London had once sported a uniform look, just as the roads had been matched in neat black-and-white stripes. In the 1980s they received a disastrous cosmetic makeover. Ignoring the fact that the system was coming apart at the seams, lavish artworks were commissioned and left unfinished, stations were closed instead of being repaired, and only a handful of the oldest remained unspoiled. Russell Square was one of the few that survived. Similar in style to the tube at Mornington Crescent, the frontage of crimson tiles, the blue glass canopy and the arched first-floor windows remained intact. The station was largely used by tourists and students staying in the nearby hotels and hostels, so the entrance was always crowded with visitors consulting maps.

  Mr Gregory, the stationmaster, was a thin, peppery man with a face that, even in repose, made him look like he was about to sneeze. He greeted the two detectives with a decongestion stick wedged up his right nostril. “I’m sorry,” he apologised. “My passages get bunged up in dusty atmospheres.”

  “You picked the wrong job, then, didn’t you?” said Bryant with a mean laugh.

  “It’s not the station, it’s pollen from over there.” Mr Gregory pointed to the tree-filled square that stood diagonally across from them. “Too much bloody fresh air coming in.” He led the way behind the barriers, ushering them through. “Can I get you anything?”