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

by Richard Whittle

  ‘I think that is for others to say.’

  Bar grunted. Wrong answer. ‘Was your father a good leader?’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Your father, Samuel Spargo. It surprises you that I know his name? Why is that? If I did not know everything about you then I would not do business with you. It is the old Spanish way.’

  ‘My father was manager of a small scheelite mine in Scotland. But I expect you know that already.’

  ‘And therefore a leader of men, John Spargo. Tell me, the name Samuel. Surely that is not a Scottish name?’

  Spargo paused. ‘There was a time when parents gave their children biblical names. Samuel was a prophet.’

  ‘Of course, I am aware of that. Are you a religious man, John Spargo?’

  Spargo groped for a neutral answer. He wanted to get up and walk away. Religious? Not particularly. Superstitious? Definitely. But then, he had reason to be.

  For the remainder of the afternoon both men drank in moderation, Bar holding centre stage in a powerful monotone, relentlessly slamming in turn the government of Spain, the European Union, and the United States for its global policing.

  ‘What right?’ he asked. ‘What right have they to police the world, John Spargo?’ He spat the words venomously. Benares, sitting some way off, nodded repeatedly, showing his teeth in a horse-like grin.

  In late afternoon the weather changed, still warm for Spargo but not, it seemed, for Bar. He called for a jacket and a rug and for a while he stayed in his wheelchair, wrapped tightly. He grumbled incessantly about the hordes of flying insects attracted to the patio lights until an hour or so later he pronounced himself tired. He powered the wheelchair backwards, turning it to face Benares.

  ‘Have you booked John Spargo into the hotel at Mojácar? Yes?’

  Benares sat bemused but said nothing.

  ‘Apparently he has not, John Spargo. However, I have a guest suite here that is particularly well appointed. There is a refrigerator with food and drink. If, for your own reasons, you do not wish to stay here then Luis will attempt, even at this late hour, to book you into a hotel. He is a resourceful man so I am sure he will manage to do that which he should have done already.’

  The chair trundled across the patio and in through the open French windows. It kept going, across what looked like a lounge and then vanished down a corridor. Spargo, drink in hand, turned to Benares.

  ‘Is anybody ever going to tell me why I’m here?’

  ‘As you have just seen, Mister Spargo, Mr Bar is elderly and therefore you must make allowances. He is buying your time, is he not?’

  ‘I’ve spent half the day travelling and the rest of it being quizzed about my past and my politics. Most clients who pay for my time usually want to wring every second of it from me.’

  Benares shrugged. He dragged his chair into the space vacated by Bar and sat down.

  ‘Is that not what Señor Bar is doing?’

  The woman reappeared. Ignoring them she cleared away glasses. When she returned from the house she started to sweep the patio with a wide, soft besom. Benares watched impatiently. Tapped his fingers. When it was clear she wasn’t going to go away he stood up and beckoned to Spargo. Spargo followed him into the house and across the lounge.

  Parquet floors everywhere, Spargo noted. And panelled walls, panelled ceilings, all in dark wood. Then, finally, panelled double doors Benares opened with a flourish.

  ‘For you, Mister Spargo. I am sure, I am certain, you will find everything you need in here.’

  Benares went inside. Spargo stayed in the doorway, peering into the room. The place was bright, the lights were on. It was unexpectedly large, with a high ceiling extending into the roof space. It was, he told himself, what used to be known as a bed sitting room – a bedsit – except this was modern and luxurious. Across the room was a sofa and king size bed.

  ‘Step inside if you please, Mister Spargo.’

  A vision of his late mother swam before him, the hospital corridor, the doctor, the nurse. He did as Benares asked, doing his best to pay attention to the tour guide routine. It was as if the man was selling the place to him.

  ‘Your bathroom, Mister Spargo…’

  Benares’ sweeping arm encompassed the shower, the sink, the bath, the lavatory and the gleaming, gold-plated fittings. A toothbrush, toothpaste and shaving accessories, all sealed in clear plastic, had been arranged in neat lines on a bevelled-glass shelf.

  ‘Your cooking facilities are here,’ Benares added, words that shook Spargo from dreams as they paced across parquet. Another door, another room, this time a kitchen. ‘You will manage the cooking for yourself, of that I am sure. There is a microwave oven it is simple to use. In this refrigerator you will find food to your liking. Señor Bar, he is tired, he will not be dining this evening.’

  Benares showed his teeth and left the room.

  Along one wall of the big room was the apartment’s only window. Outside, moths beat against the pane in an attempt to befriend the bright lights inside. Spargo’s overnight bag was already there, sitting on a shelf near the double doors. He went to it. Carried it to the bed.

  A tour of the main room, solo this time, revealed a bottle of whisky, a fifteen-year old Glenmorangie, his favourite malt. Picking up the bottle he poured a small measure into the small cut glass tumbler beside it and took a sip. Then a gulp. That this brand was here had to be a coincidence. He hadn’t mentioned drink to Benares, hadn’t asked for whisky in the tapas bar in Madrid, nor in the restaurant, nor the hotel.

  Spargo had mixed thoughts about missing out on an evening meal with Bar. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but dinner with a client was a good time to talk. But Bar seemed as reluctant as Benares to explain why he was there.

  He carried the empty glass to the kitchen, put it on the sink drainer and opened the refrigerator. On its shelves were six plated meals sealed in cling film. Years ago, when Jez was younger and Spargo’s marriage was intact, the family took self-catering holidays. This, he told himself as he looked at the plates in the refrigerator, was a self-catering business trip. He slid one of the plates from its shelf, pulled back the film, examined it and slipped it back. He did the same with another. And then another.

  Many times in his married life Theresa accused him of being a fussy eater, yet there was nothing on these plates he did not like. He stared at the food. What was glaringly obvious about all this, he realised, reaching for the whisky glass and returning to the big room for a refill, was that Bar’s chastisement of Benares for not booking a hotel was a blind. No wonder the man had looked puzzled. It was obvious, glaringly so, that Bar had every intention of keeping Spargo in his house overnight.

  The room had two phones, one in the kitchen and one beside the bed. Seeing them reminded him he’d promised Jez he would call her when he arrived in Madrid, but in all the confusion he’d forgotten to do it. He sat on the edge of the bed, whisky glass in hand, and reached for the phone. He expected a ringtone. Instead he heard Bar’s gruff voice.

  ‘I am working on him,’ the voice said in English. ‘You must be patient. I have waited many years for this and I do not intend to compromise matters. The man is no fool.’

  The reply was a slow Texan drawl.

  ‘Okay, okay, have it your way. Try asking him if modern methods might make the mines profitable. Tell him the funds for investigations can be raised fast and easy, you got that? Fast and easy, Oscar, okay? Tell him fools and their money are easily parted – he is a mining man so he will guess what you mean. And listen to me, Oscar. You take care of your end, you understand? Ditch the loose cannon before he does more damage.’

  ‘That is not your problem.’

  ‘Dump him, Oscar! And this Kilcreg business, you get it moving, okay? Our man is getting antsy, wants to see something for his money. Gets the impression he’s waiting for ever.’

  Spargo replaced the phone handset, gently.

  The snatch of conversation on what he realised was a shared line
kept him awake half the night. He tried to recall the exact words. Tried to put them in context. It made little sense.

  The American had mentioned Kilcreg. Perhaps Bar’s venture was there and not in Spain. But if they thought they could reopen the Kilcreg mine they must be out of their minds. And ditch the loose cannon, what was that? If reopening Kilcreg was their intention, and he was the loose cannon, how could they proceed at Kilcreg if they dumped him?

  Breakfast, Benares had said, would be served on the patio at eight. Spargo, showered and dressed, drifted towards the French windows and found them locked shut.

  The lounge was long, the full width of the house. At one end, well away from the French windows, the walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookcases of dark brown wood. To pass the time Spargo browsed book titles, keeping his hands clasped behind him as if to prove he’d touched nothing.

  Bar’s non-fiction, he noticed, was indexed by subject: Antarctica and Anatomy to Velazquez and Zoology. He checked under ‘M’ and was surprised to see there was nothing about mining. Moving to fiction, he found most of it was in Spanish. Recognising one of the titles, he pulled out a book.

  Sandwiched between tall bookcases was a doorway to a room he’d not noticed before. The room was small and contained the usual office trappings, a desk and swivel chair, a computer and printer, a photocopier and filing cabinets. Spargo moved closer. Looked in properly.

  Above the cabinets there were picture hooks but no pictures. Beneath each hook a rectangular patch of paint, untouched by the sun, showed where each picture had been. The pictures themselves were there, taken down and stacked on end under the room’s only window, as if the walls had been cleared for redecoration. Spargo ventured inside. Went to the frames and picked one up.

  ‘Do you read Spanish, John Spargo?’

  Bar, it seemed, moved as silently as Benares. The man and his wheelchair were so close behind Spargo he could have reached out and touched them. Had Spargo not been holding the photo frame with both hands he might well have dropped it. Instead he dropped the paperback that had been clamped under his arm. Bar repeated his question.

  ‘Spanish?’ Spargo spluttered, seeking words. ‘No, unfortunately not.

  Bar was looking down at the dropped paperback.

  ‘But you have read that particular Hemingway? In English? Does his work interest you?’

  ‘I read one of his novels, Fifth Column. That was years ago.’

  ‘It is a play, not a novel. But yes, the Spanish Civil War, the battle for Madrid. Do you not think it an irony that in that war the Soviets supported the Spanish Royalists?’

  ‘I’m not much of a one for politics.’

  Bar grunted, backed the wheelchair out of the room, swung it around and buzzed the length of the lounge. Turning sharply he stopped by the windows.

  ‘Come here, John Spargo. The key to these doors is over there.’ He waggled a finger at a side table. ‘Unlock them for me, I need air. You say you do not know about politics. But you know about mines and to me that is acceptable, it is what you are here for. You have explained to me that your father managed a mine. Scheelite, you said. An ore of tungsten, yes? Are there other, similar mines in Scotland?’

  ‘There are none. The mine he managed was kept going because of wartime needs. Nowadays it would be unable to compete with imports from abroad.’

  ‘Would modern methods make such a mine profitable?’

  Spargo’s face twitched. It was the question set by the Texan, in context now.

  ‘Modern methods? I doubt it. I take it you mean Kilcreg? Even if the minerals are there, they are not in commercial quantities.’

  ‘How do you know that? Has anyone carried out investigations?’

  ‘My father told me that government geologists explored the area in the nineteen-thirties.’

  ‘In the nineteen-thirties, John Spargo? Are you saying exploration and extraction methods have not improved since then?’

  ‘I don’t know the extent of the old study. There could well be more mineral at great depth. Of course, the deeper it is, the more it costs to mine.’

  ‘You are an honest man, John Spargo. But before you talk yourself out of a job would it not be worth investigating the mine further?’

  ‘That would not be possible. There is no longer any way in to the old workings. Even if there were, the levels will be flooded.’

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of a drilling and sampling program. Funds for the necessary investigations can be raised easily,’ he continued. ‘A fool and his money are easily parted. I will have no trouble finding investors. You are a mining man, John Spargo. I am sure you understand what I mean.’

  More snippets from the phone conversation.

  ‘Tell me about BarConSA,’ Spargo said. ‘It’s not in any of my mining directories. I can’t find it on the Internet.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it.’

  ‘The name… is it Bar Consulting? Bar Contracting?’

  ‘You are concerned, John Spargo?’

  ‘I like to know who I am working for.’

  ‘My company is small and exclusive, we do not advertise, there is no need. You need have no worries about authenticity. When you next check your bank balance you will discover you have been adequately compensated for your stay here and your time and trouble. Speak to Benares, he will give you the details.’

  ‘I still don’t know what you want from me.’

  ‘I regret I am not yet in a position to release details. Suffice to say that as soon as financial arrangements between the various partners are in place you shall be given the information you require. I have satisfied myself you are the person to do this work, and that is the reason you are here. Now, breakfast arrives! I suggest you sit down and enjoy it.’

  It was dark when Spargo’s plane arrived in Edinburgh. By the time its wheels double-bumped on the runway he was convinced he’d cracked the mystery that was Oscar Bar. The man was planning a scam. There would be a project of some kind, one that would impress Bar’s investors. As soon as it was underway the offices in Madrid would be teeming with hired staff. To a curious investor the business would look active and legitimate.

  Before leaving the airport he phoned Jez, and on his way home he called in to see her. Omitting the muddles in Madrid he explained where he had been. He described Bar, described the villa. He didn’t mention the pictures he’d seen in Bar’s office. Didn’t think he should.

  ‘So what’s it about?’ Jez asked. ‘Is there work for you?’

  ‘I’m sure there is. Not yet sure what. They talked about Scottish mines.’

  ‘There are hardly any left, you know that. They’re mainly opencast coal.’

  ‘They mentioned Kilcreg. They’re talking about reopening it.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! Did you tell him it’s worked out?’

  Spargo shrugged. ‘It’s nonsense, I know.’

  ‘So how can there be work for you?’

  Jez was perched on a stool at her breakfast bar. Spargo dragged out another stool, sat on it, reached for the coffee and mumbled a response. He knew this would happen. He had been expecting to be quizzed.

  ‘My guess is they’ll produce an investment portfolio based on reopening the mine,’ he said without looking at her. ‘To do that they’ll need a report on Kilcreg’s mining potential. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. I told them there could be ore deep down. You’re a geologist, you know it could be true. Whether it’s worth mining or not is debatable. My guess is that I will be asked to produce a factual report.’

  ‘They will take your stuff out of context. They’ll dupe the investors. They will leave out all your caveats and cautions. It happens all the time.’

  ‘What they do with my report is up to them. They will raise money for exploration, maybe get drills on site and put down a few holes.’

  ‘And when they find pinhead-sized bits of scheelite they’ll hype it up – Valuable minerals found at Kilcreg – it’s pseudo-science and lie
s, Dad! They will raise even more money, perhaps enough to sink a shaft. When they decide they have spent enough of their investor’s money they will announce that they have hit unforeseen problems and pull out completely.’

  ‘I know all that.’

  ‘So what will they do with what remains of the investor’s money?’

  ‘I know, I know. It will have all gone on directors’ fees and running costs. It maintains lifestyles and big cars, villas overlooking the Mediterranean, empty offices in Madrid ready for the next scam. Oh – there is a nice bit of raised beach to the south of Bar’s place. Pity you weren’t there.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. It’s a scam. You’re getting involved in a scam!’

  ‘It’s perfectly legal. Investors are gamblers. Gamblers take risks.’

  ‘But it’s wrong!’

  ‘I won’t be involved. I’ll be out of it long before then.’

  ‘It’s still wrong.’

  ‘Jez… look… it’s what I need right now. Things haven’t been too good lately. I don’t have much work.’

  There wasn’t much more to be said. Spargo feigned tiredness, apologised for interrupting her and left without finishing his coffee. At home he swung his Volvo onto the twin row of paving slabs in his front garden, triggering the security lamp under the eaves and flooding the front garden with light. He took his bag from the boot, placed them on his front step, and took out his house keys.

  A few years ago he’d had deadlocks fitted to his front and back doors. Each needed two turns of the key and he’d become obsessive about double-locking them. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it once. He tried to turn it a second time but it wouldn’t turn – the door was already unlocked. He stood on the step, frowning. Opening the door he gave a nod of understanding. There was no mystery. Jez must have called round for some reason, perhaps to check the mail. Though if she’d done that, why hadn’t she said?

  Carrying his bag, Spargo stepped into the hall. Entering the house in the dark involved a strict routine: drop what you are carrying, step briskly to an alcove at the other end of the hall and type the alarm code into a panel. If you didn’t know where the panel was, then even if you knew the code you wouldn’t be able to find it before the alarm sounded.