The shop was unexpectedly deep and uncomfortably dark; display cabinets sat in an uneven row along both walls and Spargo took his time browsing, peering into cabinets as if showing real interest, inspecting clusters of crystals, bracelets and jewellery set with unnatural stones he knew were dyed quartz. Arranged on shelves above the cabinets were books on the occult, paganism and runic writings. Deeper in the shop lay more sinister artefacts, glass castings labelled as crystal skulls, and crossed bones in cast brass. Alone in a glass case sat what could well have been a human skull, shrunken and jawless with a top set of well-blackened teeth. A notice proclaimed it wasn’t for sale.
Then deep red hair at the back of the shop, Dracula eye shadow and piercings that to Spargo looked painful. He guessed their owner was a girl and he wondered what age she really was under her trimmings. Could be fourteen. Probably ten years older.
‘I’m looking for Montgomery,’ he mumbled. ‘I was told I would find him at Pixie.’
‘Pixie’s dead. This is Creatures.’ She had been chewing gum. It was now behind her ear. When she realised he wasn’t a customer she put it back in her mouth. ‘You the polis?’
‘I’m not police.’ He nodded towards the skull in the case. ‘You allowed to have that?’
‘What?’
‘A real head. A shrunken head.’
‘Don’t see it’s any of your business. You an anthropologist, then?’
‘I just want Montgomery. I was given his name by someone who has something for sale.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Spargo.’
‘Where you from?’
‘Here. Edinburgh.’
‘What’s this man selling?’
‘Old pewter.’
‘Then you had best take it to an antique shop.’
‘I want Montgomery.’
‘I don’t know any Montgomery.’
Spargo turned away and looked in more cabinets. Perhaps in the hope he would buy something the girl flicked a switch that brought to life a string of coloured Christmas tree lights that hung in loops on the wall. They flashed on and off, illuminating at three second intervals the contents of the cases beneath them. Remembering what was in them was, for the three second dark intervals, like Kim’s Game.
In pride of place in the centre of a display case sat a bright red armband. A black swastika sat on a white circular patch. Arranged around it were military medals and buttons, a German army officer’s cap badge and a small silver dagger. Small white price tags, the kind jewellers use, had been tied to each piece and placed face down. Spargo looked down at it all. He had got it all wrong. He had assumed Montgomery dealt in antiques, not wartime memorabilia.
‘Who are you selling these things for?’
‘They’re mine.’
‘They’re Montgomery’s. If they were yours they wouldn’t be price-tagged. None of the things in the other cabinets have these tags.’
‘What the fuck are you, Inspector bloody Rebus?’
Spargo straightened up and turned to face her. He took the lighter from his pocket and displayed it on his upturned palm. The gold and the newly polished silver glistened in the flashing lights. She stood and looked. Didn’t touch.
‘What is it?’
‘It was once a lighter. I believe it’s German, nineteen-thirties or forties. The eagle is gold. It’s mounted on silver.’
‘It’s no use to me. I can’t deal in unmarked gold.’
‘What about Montgomery? Perhaps he’s not so fussy. What’s he going to say when he learns he’s missed a trinket like this?’
She didn’t respond. He didn’t persist.
‘Sorry to have troubled you,’ he said.
He walked out. He was no longer bothered. He had done more for Kalman than he had meant to. Outside in the street he kept one hand in his pocket and realised, after a while, that he was stroking the gold eagle with the tip of his thumb. Realised, too, that it seemed to relax him.
Kalman’s comment about him not being fit irritated him and he decided to walk home. It was all very well for Kalman, he was younger, he was fitter because he had a job that demanded it. Spargo, latterly anyway, spent most of his time at a desk. But that, he thought as he strode uphill – a thing he found incredibly tiring – was a temporary state of affairs because as soon as the BarConSA job kicked off he would be checking on drill rigs on the hills of Kilcreg. He would walk to them; he would soon be fit.
With new-found enthusiasm and completely unaware he was being followed, he crossed the Royal Mile. Ten minutes more and he was approaching the old university buildings and the University Bookshop, James Thin. He needed a decent map of Kilcreg and James Thin was the place. If they didn’t have the right one in stock then he could order one.
He changed direction, went from one set of pedestrian lights to another. A man close behind him did the same, resulting in a strange dance movement that brought them face-to-face. Spargo apologised. The man, a stocky, leather-clad biker, gave a grunt.
Spargo, assuming the man had been drinking, stepped aside. The man blocked him. The crossing lights changed to green and Spargo, determined to cross and equally determined not to tangle with a drunken gorilla in motorcycle leathers, swivelled sharply and crossed the road. The gorilla followed. He reached the front door of the bookshop at the same time as Spargo.
‘You got something to sell.’
A statement, not a question. Spargo looked at the sleeveless, weatherworn leather waistcoat and faded black tee-shirt. He could just about make out the word HARLEY printed across the shirt in what had once been multicolour – but clearly not permanent – inks. Shiny silver chains looped down across a Desperate Dan chest and linked, at their lower end, to a leather belt secured with a skull-and-cross-bones buckle.
The biker’s bare arms, smothered in tattoos and twice as thick as Spargo’s, bore no resemblance to any he had seen on a human. Predictably the knuckles bore the words LOVE and HATE, tattoos so old the fingers had outgrown the artwork and left the ink thin, the letters distorted and wide. Though the man was adorned with a lot more metal than Kalman had been wearing when Spargo first met him, the biker’s was less valuable. More suited to a pirate than a middle-aged rocker.
Spargo looked him in the eye.
‘I’m not selling anything. You could have discovered that yourself if you’d shown yourself in the shop. Where were you, down the end behind the curtains? Are you Montgomery?’
‘Who’s asking?’
The man took out a brass cigarette case and extracted from it a thin, poorly-made roll-up. Placing one end of it between his lips he ignited the other with a disposable lighter. The protruding shreds of tobacco, along with half the cigarette, flared up and vanished with a crisp, crackling hiss.
‘If you are Montgomery then say so. I’m nothing to do with the police. I know a man with pewter plates to sell. I’m doing him a favour.’
Some bloody favour. Maybe he should invoice Kalman for his time and trouble. The biker grunted again. He put a hand deep into one of his many pockets and Spargo, expecting a weapon, took a smart step back. The biker pulled out a scrap of paper and thrust it out.
‘Nine o’clock tonight. Be there, Pal.’
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
GÖRING’S TRAIN RUNS THROUGH THE NIGHT, stopping only for the locos to take on water and coal. Theo, surrounded by noise, sleeps well. Twelve hours after setting his head down on the bed’s feather pillow he is woken by the steward, bringing breakfast.
The journey has taken less time than Theo anticipated. It is daylight when the train pulls into the rail yards at Neuhaus. It moves slowly, its wheels grinding and squealing as they negotiate tight curves on old rusting rails. Several vehicles with military markings are lined up nearby and three covered trucks, massive and multi-wheeled, stand ready with their tailgates down. When the train stops, two of the trucks snake backwards, lining themselves up with the train’s boxcar doors.
&n
bsp; Uniformed airmen are everywhere. All wear the Göring cuff and all are armed, some with automatic rifles and others with machine pistols. Loud thuds from further down the train tell Theo those doing the unloading are dropping loading ramps. Wasting no time.
Walter, Theo discovers when he arrives at the command carriage, has gone. No doubt he is outside somewhere, shouting and supervising. Theo finds him in the boxcar, doing his thing with his clipboard. Using a pencil as a pointer he waves it like a baton at this crate and that. When the two trucks are full, another back up. Walter hands Theo the clipboard and holds out a pen.
‘Sign it!’
Theo shakes his head. ‘I can’t. Not until I’ve counted the crates.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! The more time we waste messing about here the less chance there is of you seeing your boy.’
Theo, convinced he is doing a deal with the devil, takes the pen and signs. Walter takes the signed paper, folds it, and slips it into a long brown envelope. Then he frowns, inverts the envelope and taps the sheet out again. He unfolds it, checks it, and returns it to the envelope. He sighs.
‘Good. All in order. Just for a second I thought you might have signed it Volker.’
An elderly officer, out of breath, arrives at the boxcar. Stopping in front of Walter he salutes. The man is cold, he has the collar of his greatcoat pulled high and his breath drifts like thin mist. Finally he finds breath to speak.
‘My consignment for the Sch…’ he seems to run out of air and he takes a deep breath. ‘My consignment for the Schloss, Herr Major, it is complete.’ He swivels on his heels to face Theo. ‘Herr Hauptmann, I understand you are to accompany me in the escort vehicles.’
Walter interrupts him. ‘The Hauptmann has a more important task to undertake for the Reichsmarschall. Your responsibility is to take your cargo to the Schloss. Documentation is all in order, it will be returned to the Reichsmarschall’s secretary, Miss Limburger. Is that clear?’
The two trucks destined for Munich head south on a swathe of white concrete. Theo, in the lead truck with Walter, navigates using the map from the command carriage. They make good time on the autobahn, and when they turn onto local roads Theo folds the map. Tells the driver he knows the way from here.
The back roads are narrow and busy; horse-drawn wagons delay them and Walter, frustrated, slides open his window to curse them. He urges their driver to keep up his speed, to run the wagons off the road if need be.
The lane Theo takes them down was made for farm carts. It is the same width as the trucks and tree branches scrape their sides. It is also steep, tortuous and narrow and the deep muddy ruts in its surface are hard-frozen. Despite their immense size the truck’s tyres struggle to grip. Theo apologises. Last time he was here it was not like this.
The lane flattens out and ends in a farmyard. Theo knows that beneath the lake of frozen mud and ice-filled hollows is a cobbled yard, but there is no sign of it now. Even trucks with ten wheels have trouble manoeuvring and they grind their way slowly. The ground beneath their tyres crunches and cracks under their weight.
The roofs of the buildings around the yard are clad with corrugated sheets, rusted through and in dire need of repair. Beyond them, like an isolated island in an icy swamp, stands the farmhouse, its roof similarly clad but less rusted. The front door of the farmhouse faces them, it is set back beneath a canopy that was once a full porch. Theo wonders what happened to its wooden sides.
‘Can you drive closer? Right to the door?’
The driver grunts, then remembers who he is with. He mutters apologies and swings the wheel hard. The truck lurches, slithers sideways, and finally stops. Theo, in the middle of the truck’s bench seat, reaches across Walter to open the door. He clambers past him and jumps down onto ice. The driver watches.
‘With respect, Herr Hauptmann. Take care you do not fall.’
Theo, embarrassed, wants to explain to them that the last time he was there the farm was full of life, that it was the place where his wife Erika was born, that the first time he came here, in summer, he and Erica ran together through fields and rounded up cows, brought them for milking to a cowshed strewn with fresh straw. Back then there were pigs in the sties – pigs Erika named after people she knew, her teachers at school and her relatives.
But now there is nothing. Not one living thing.
Some of the ruts are soft shells. As Theo walks on them they collapse and spurt mud on his clothes. By the time he has taken his kitbag from the back of the truck the mud has coated his high boots. Walter slides back the window and looks out. His nose is turned up for good reason.
‘God! What is that stench?’
‘They farmed pigs. The last time I was here they had thirty.’
‘You are certain this is the place? It looks deserted.’
‘It was not always like this.’
‘It seems to me it has been like this for a while. Do you want me to wait?’
Unusual generosity from Walter.
‘No, they are here. I have seen someone.’
It is a lie. The place looks and feels dead.
‘Rather you than me. I will return tomorrow at midday. You will be ready.’
‘Tomorrow. Midday. Yes.’
The truck is reversing to where the second one is waiting. Still embarrassed Theo waves and shouts his thanks, his voice drowned by the truck engine’s growl.
Theo stands at the door of the farmhouse with his kitbag beside him. As always the front door is unlocked and he flicks up its wooden latch and gives it a shove. The door opens into the parlour, a small, low-ceilinged room that was once comfortably furnished. Now, apart from two leather armchairs, it is bare. He wonders if Walter was right. Perhaps he should have asked him to wait.
He calls out as he steps inside. Treads mud on the grubby stone floor.
‘Artur! Barbara!’
He puts down his bag but leaves his greatcoat on. It is as cold inside as it is outside, there is no fire in the grate – the fire that burns summer and winter – and no cooking pot hanging over it on the black iron hook. No kettle on the flat hob beside it.
The door to the back room is open. Except for the wooden drainer beside the stone sink, that room is bare too. On it are a loaf of bread and a small wedge of cheese. Both are thick with mould.
Returning to the door to scrape mud from his boots Theo calls out again. This time he hears a sound like the lifting of a door latch. It seems to have come from upstairs. And there is something else, the sound of footsteps. A patter, like a cat on a roof.
He pulls off his boots and moves quietly to the stairs, ascending the narrow passage in near darkness to the small upstairs rooms. Entering Artur and Barbara’s bedroom he remembers how it was last time, the chair in the corner, the table with its oil lamp, water jug and washing bowl. Now the table is gone and the lamp, jug and bowl stand on the floor on a multi-colour rug – a rug made years ago by Erika from strips of rag she knotted through sackcloth. There are no free-standing beds. As in many rural houses, they are concealed behind panelled walls, like nests.
The small double doors to the bed stand open. Bundled on top of the hay-filled mattress is a large, square quilt. Theo recognises its embroidered patterns. What now feels like a lifetime ago he helped Erika and Barbara shred old woollens and stuff them inside it.
From where he is standing he can smell damp, stable-like odours. This is not how things should be. Barbara changes the hay in the mattress weekly and airs the beds daily, draping quilts and mattresses over windowsills in fine weather or airing them in the barn when it rains.
He checks the only other bedroom, the one where he and Erika slept for a week after they married. The bed doors are closed. Like the other room this once had an oil lamp, a washstand and an Erika rug. All are gone, including the curtains.
The room’s one window, at the back of the house, overlooks fields. In case Artur and Barbara are working there Theo goes to it, wipes it clean with his sleeve, and looks out. What he sees s
hocks him. The fields are overgrown. Wheat – if what he sees is wheat – lies rotting and weed-ridden, flattened by frost.
The floor creaks as he steps back. A sound from behind the closed bed-doors startles him and he goes to them, opens the doors looks in. Something moves. He steps away. He knows about cornered rats, how they launch themselves at you, all teeth and bared claws. But it is not a rat concealed there, he knows that too.
A bulge in the quilt darts from one end to the other. Theo glimpses a nose and an ear and he grabs at the quilt. The child – it has to be a child – dodges away. Theo tries again, loses his balance and falls forwards.
Then, unexpectedly, he sees his boy, cross-legged at one end of the alcove, tight-lipped and staring.
‘Peter,’ Theo says, quietly. ‘Where is your grandmother? Peter, listen to me, where is Artur? Where have they gone?’
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE EDINBURGH BACKSTREET was not the sort of place you ventured into at night when alone – or perhaps at any time. There were no people and, unusually for Edinburgh, no parked cars. Spargo wondered why that might be.
On one side of the road a wire mesh fence on high concrete posts protected the back of dark warehouses. On the other side, a railway line ran high on a stone viaduct, the arches beneath it blocked off by wooden walls. Some of the walls had doors; the sign on one of them, an electricity substation, proclaimed Danger of Death.
Spargo drove slowly, his eyes straining for details. Halfway down the street he pulled into the kerb under the road’s only working streetlight. He pressed a button. Heard the satisfying clunks of his door locks.
On the seat beside him was the biker’s scrappy map. He picked it up and looked again at the clumsy annotation, the words green door and the child’s treasure map arrow. Then he looked across the road at the boarded-up archways. In the orange glow from the street light all the woodwork looked brown. Against his better judgement he switched off his engine, stepped out of the car and pressed the remote. Heard the clunks.
The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park Page 26