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

by Richard Whittle

  Benares slowed down and changed gear. Turning off the track he eased the front wheels on to one of the concrete slabs, drove on it and stopped. Not happy with where he had parked he shunted up and down, tucking the vehicle tight against the counting house wall. Satisfied the SUV was now hidden he turned off the engine. He gave Spargo a shove towards the door and then clambered out himself.

  The back wall of the building was higher than the front. Its corrugated asbestos roof sloped only one way and gave it the look of a huge lean-to shed. The ground floor, once a store, had in later years been used as a bothy for shepherds at lambing time; its large double door had gone; the frames of the windows in the upper floor – windows that once gave a view across the moor – were boarded over.

  Benares was ahead of him, waiting at the foot of an external wooden staircase leading to the upper floor. Spargo recalled how he used to think of the place as an old-style railway signal box. Outside the door at the top of the steps was a small wooden platform, surrounded by a wooden handrail. There had been a handrail on each side of the staircase but now the one on the outside had gone. Spargo remembered how scared he had been the first time he climbed the steps. Falling off it, under the handrail, had been a real fear.

  But not as scared then as he was now.

  ‘Upstairs, Mister Spargo.’

  ‘Are you bringing my daughter here?’

  ‘The door is not locked. Go inside.’

  Spargo took the stairs slowly. Stopped on the platform and looked back. ‘Chocky,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Chocky…’

  ‘Open the door, Mister Spargo.’

  ‘Chocky,’ Spargo said, this time more loudly. He stopped in the doorway and turned to Benares.

  ‘That Canadian mine stuff you sent me to work on. You said Bar was thinking of buying the mine. That was a lie.’

  Jez wasn’t being subtle when she’d said those two words. She must have looked up the Cocwaiqui mine and found out how to pronounce it. And TIM, he’d guessed that too. Not a name. Initials.

  ‘Bar can’t buy that Canadian mine, can he?’ Spargo continued. ‘There is no real work for me because it’s already been sold, bought by TIM, Triscor Incorporated Materials. Why pay me to work on a worthless project? Was it just to keep me hooked? Is that it?’

  Benares ignored him. He had stopped near the top of the stairs and was gazing over the heather towards the round topped dome of Stac Dubh. The man was vulnerable. He had dropped his guard. A well-placed kick and he would go over, breaking his neck or his back. Spargo felt a rush of adrenaline and took a step forwards. Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. His engineer’s mind had balanced the odds of success and found them against him. Somebody had Jez. What if Benares had a prior arrangement to phone her captors? What if there was an accomplice already in the counting house?

  ‘I know nothing of these contractual matters,’ Benares said, stepping up to the platform. ‘This mine business does not interest me.’

  Small grimy panes glazed the top half of the door. One pane was cracked, another replaced by a square of warped hardboard. Spargo grasped the door knob, peered through the panes and saw a bed, two chairs and a table. In his mind he also saw Letchie, naked, a wire buried in his neck. It wasn’t going to happen to him.

  On impulse he swung his free arm back in a sudden, scythe-like sweep. It caught Benares in the chest and he toppled backwards with arms flailing. By chance he managed to grab Spargo’s jacket and had just about recovered his balance when Spargo, more in panic than combat, let fly a kick that caught the man’s kneecap.

  Benares gasped, shrieked, released his grip and hung motionless, the heels of his shiny brogues still on the edge of the platform and his body tilted out at an angle. With his mouth open wide and arms flailing he fell backwards. Spargo, down the steps and across the concrete, leapt into the SUV and started the engine. Though Benares had manoeuvred the 4x4 well away from the track Spargo roared forwards, unaware of a two-foot drop off the concrete slab, hidden by deep heather. The vehicle darted forwards so fast the front and back wheels made it off the slab. The back of the vehicle smashed down on the concrete. The engine stalled.

  If Spargo had considered Benares would survive the drop from the staircase he might have locked all five doors. He might also have looked in the mirror, because had he done so he would have seen Benares, apparently unharmed, running towards him. He only realised the man was there when the drivers’ door opened and a hand grabbed the wheel.

  Benares, one hand on the wheel and the other on Spargo’s trouser belt, attempted to haul him out. The SUV, still with its rear end perched on the concrete slab, lurched forwards, jumped out of gear and stopped dead as if against buffers. Spargo, not strapped in, hit his head on the screen.

  Spargo knew where he was but not how he got there. He also knew he was in great pain from his head, his neck and his side. From where he lay on the concrete slab he made out Benares, an out-of-focus silhouette brushing mud from its suit.

  The carpet of heather covering the ground beneath the wooden staircase was thick enough to break the fall of an elephant, Spargo realised as he stumbled back up it to the counting house. The pain in his side got worse with each step and to ease it he crossed his arms as if hugged himself. One his hands touched warm, damp flesh.

  He stopped climbing. Looking down at his side he saw his shirt was cut through and blood-soaked. Cautiously his fingers explored for a wound and when he found it his legs went from under him. He tried to twist round to look at Benares but the pain was too great.

  ‘You bastard! You stabbed me!’

  ‘You are still breathing. Give me more trouble, Mister Spargo, and I will do it again. Next time you will not get up.’

  Spargo reached the landing and kicked the door, a mistake that brought more pain. It swung open into a small damp room floored with brown linoleum – a covering so ancient it had split along the joins in the floorboards. At some stage an attempt had been made to insulate the roof by lining it with kapok, held in place by cream painted plywood. It had split along the joins, releasing grey entrails of ragged, flocked cotton.

  Spargo had been there many times. Long ago it seemed to him that every inch of the place was filled with desks, chairs and wooden cabinets. His mother’s desk had been on the right hand side, its place taken now by a black-and-rust bedstead with a thin grubby mattress and a red sleeping bag, still partly rolled, the carrier bag beside it bearing the logo of Tiso’s of Edinburgh. Closer to him and almost filling the space that remained were three plastic garden chairs, tucked in under what might well have been one of the original office tables.

  Benares came in behind him and closed the door, blocking out what remained of the daylight. He walked down the room, heels tap-tapping the lino.

  ‘You disappoint me, Mister Spargo. I thought you were an intelligent man.’

  Spargo said nothing. Didn’t want to do anything that brought him more pain. Then he remembered Jez. Whatever had happened to her was his fault. The least he could do – or maybe the best he could do – was keep her safe.

  ‘Where is my daughter?’ he asked. ‘Why pick on her? She has done nothing to you.’

  ‘Your daughter? What about her? You think I have done something? What makes you think this?’

  ‘If anything at all happens to her…’

  ‘You are hardly in a position to threaten me. Tell me how you know of this.’

  ‘She phoned me. When I was returning to my car. When I saw you.’

  Benares frowned. Didn’t reply.

  Spargo turned his wounded side to Benares and lifted his jacket to show the red stain. The wound wasn’t that big but the blood from it was spreading.

  ‘I need to have this seen to. I need a doctor.’

  ‘The cut is nothing. It is a flesh wound, a mere warning. Now, Mister Spargo, I have to leave you, I have things to do. Locking you in is pointless because you will easily find a way to escape. If you are not here when I return then you will have to live wi
th the consequences.’

  ‘Why am I here? If it’s Volker’s journals you and Bar want, I don’t have them. I’ve got a full translation, you can have that instead.’

  ‘And I am sure it makes interesting reading. But I have no interest in these diaries.’

  ‘Bullshit! It’s why you killed my mother and Letchie.’

  ‘You are wrong.’

  ‘How did you know I would be at Kilcreg? How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I followed you from Edinburgh.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I’d have seen you.’

  ‘I didn’t stay behind you, I am not stupid. Once you were on your way it was obvious where you were going. By coming voluntarily you saved me considerable trouble.’

  ‘The mine house, is that your work? Did you have it demolished?’

  ‘The house is owned by the Kilcreg Estate. I made it known I was in the market for good building stone and roof slates and I was willing to well pay over the market price. In truth I shall resell the material at a considerable loss, but that is of no consequence.’

  The inscrutable smile. The white marble tombstones. Spargo grimaced.

  ‘So I am right. You are looking for other boxes.’

  ‘I believe I have already told you as much. But tell me how you know of these things. Is it in Volker’s writings?’

  ‘He says there were other boxes. I’m guessing that’s why you had the U-boat searched. There was nothing on it, I know that too.’

  ‘Mister Kalman has a big mouth.’

  ‘When you realised they weren’t on the U-boat you went to my mother’s house to find them. You don’t have brains enough to realise the box would not have been in her cottage because she hadn’t always lived there. Admit you murdered her! Admit you tried to find out what she knew about the other boxes!’

  ‘You are wrong. I did not kill your mother. I have never met her.’

  ‘Then it was Letchie. You are as guilty as him. You arranged it. He took pictures for you, he did your reconnaissance. It’s how you knew about this place.’

  ‘Mister Letchie did take pictures. He was recommended to me as an excellent source of information. He was paid a large amount of money to discover facts.’

  ‘About my mother. About me.’

  ‘Not about you, I knew all about you. It concerns me that you consider me responsible for your mother’s death and I am particularly anxious Mr Bar should not hold the same view. Mister Letchie became a little over-zealous. I was not informed of his penchant for violence.’

  ‘You’re a cold-blooded bastard! You dangled money on a string. It encouraged Letchie to kill her!’

  Benares had moved to the door. He had his back to Spargo, staring out through grimy panes.

  ‘I am sorry you see it that way. I have never needed to pay people to do my killing.’ Spargo shivered. The wound in his side throbbed. ‘Mister Letchie took it upon himself to search your mother’s house while she was still there. That was incredibly stupid of him. Had he been more diligent he would have discovered your mother had not always lived in the cottage. He could have searched the other house. Your mother need not have been troubled.’

  ‘Troubled? So you killed…’ The words came from a dry throat and Spargo tried again, this time managing to get them out. ‘So you killed him… Letchie… in my house.’

  ‘Regrettably.’

  ‘And Lewis? You murdered him too?’

  Benares raised his finger and wagged it at Spargo as if chastising a child. ‘Take care, Mister Spargo, do not insult me. I did not kill Lewis. As part of Letchie’s journalistic investigations he talked to Kalman. As a result of that man’s indiscretions he decided to involve himself in business that was not of his concern. Mister Letchie was a loose cannon. He had to be removed.’

  Spargo winced. That expression – loose cannon – words used in Bar’s villa: ‘ditch the loose cannon before he does more damage…’

  ‘Mister Letchie also learnt you had discovered a box in the old house and you had taken it to the police.’

  ‘But why kill him at my place? What was it, some kind of twisted warning?’

  ‘That did not enter my mind. He told me about Volker’s diaries. I happened to know they were of no importance and I told him so. Possibly he did not believe me. Possibly he thought they would lead him to the items we sought. Whatever the reason, he started to act independently.’

  ‘Then you should have stopped him.’

  ‘Oh, I did, Mister Spargo. Unfortunately I was not in time to save the translator. In your cellar Mister Letchie admitted he had visited him. Under duress Mister Lewis said he had returned the diaries to the police without attempting a translation. Later Letchie ran the man down.’

  ‘A hit and run. And that is why you decided to dispose of Letchie?’

  ‘I do not have to justify my actions to you. He had killed two people. We could not allow him to kill more.’

  ‘We? You and Bar?’

  ‘No doubt you have already learnt from Mister Kalman that the submarine investigations were funded by a consortium. Letchie was recommended to us by a member of that consortium. We believe he learnt of our needs from that same person.’

  ‘Why are you telling me these things?’

  ‘I see no harm in it. At some time in the future you would have learned it yourself. I would rather you were told the truth from me than lies from others.’

  Spargo’s shoulders sagged, relief rather than despair. If Benares was to be trusted, for Spargo there would be a future. The man was not about to add him to his victims. Jez too, hopefully.

  ‘What else did Lewis tell Letchie?’

  ‘I have no idea. I could not even discover from him where Mister Lewis lived.’

  ‘I want to speak to Jez.’

  Benares shrugged. ‘I am late. I have to leave.’

  ‘Let me speak to her.’

  ‘Maybe when I return.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘That is no concern of yours. Stay here, Mister Spargo. I do not wish to sound melodramatic but if you are not here upon my return then I shall make a telephone call. I am sure you understand.’

  Spargo lifted his jacket again. ‘This is bad. I need a doctor.’

  ‘Mister Spargo, listen to me. Despite the fact I have never done you any harm you attempted to kill me. Had it not been for that filthy undergrowth you would now be a murderer.’

  With dusk came the rain, ragged, squally gusts drifting in from the sea. It beat on the counting house roof and ran down the panes in the door, transforming Spargo’s view of the heather into striped Lowry paintings. It stopped as unexpectedly as it started, vanishing inland and leaving cold air. Spargo, heeding Benares’ warning, stayed inside. The pain in his side was now so great he doubted he would have made it as far as Kilcreg.

  In the poor light he unfastened his trousers and dropped them. He noticed a new, clean nick in his trouser belt. Its leather had protected him, it had deflected the blade. Lifting his shirt he saw the wound was a slash rather than a stab, it didn’t look deep. The blood had started to congeal but his fiddling around had disturbed it and it was bleeding again.

  Had the wounding really a warning? Or had Benares, in the heat of the moment and unsure he could stop the SUV, tried to kill him? Cautiously he unbuttoned one of his cuffs. With the help of a fragment of glass from a boarded window he ripped off part of a shirt sleeve, folded it into a thick pad, pressed it to the wound and then secured it in place with his belt.

  In what little light there was left to see by Spargo unrolled the sleeping bag, spread it out on the bed and lay on it. Minutes later he zipped up his jacket. Finally, feeling the cold and realising he had started to shiver, he opened the bag, got right inside it and zipped it up.

  Had he not been awakened by the sound of an engine he would have sworn he had not slept at all. Feeling the pain in his side but forgetting his vulnerability he eased himself out of the bag. Gasped as his shirt snagged his wound.r />
  Car headlights lit up the heather, twin beams that bounced up and down. The engine stopped, the bright lights vanished. Torch beams wavered, came to the stairs. Could it be Mitchell? Even better, could it be Mitchell with Jez?

  Voices now, definitely Spanish. Not Mitchell but Benares. As for the person with him, the gravel-deep voice was unmistakable. Bar came up the staircase slowly, breathing heavily, cursing Benares for making him climb stairs. When he reached the platform he stood wheezing, and waited a while before shoving the door. Finally he barged in, torch in hand, painting the room with its beam. It fell on Spargo. Then it moved on, as if Spargo wasn’t there.

  Bar was inspecting the room. Speaking in English he pronounced the place too small, too cold and too uncomfortable. Benares, still in the doorway, answered in Spanish and Bar turned the torch on him, dazzling him with the beam. As Spargo stood up Bar grabbed a plastic chair, twisted it round and slumped on to it. Its legs splayed under his weight.

  ‘John Spargo is my guest,’ he said. ‘This place is not good enough. You will find heat for him. You will bring light.’

  Benares held out his arms in despair. ‘I cannot!’ he said. ‘This place is worse than a desert, there is nothing!’

  ‘I did not choose this place, you did. Do as I say, drive until you find something. Before you do that, bring the bottle and the glasses from the car.’

  ‘Bring them in here?’

  ‘Of course. Do it now. Then leave us.’

  Benares paused as if about to protest but thought better of it. He left hurriedly, slamming the door.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Spargo asked. ‘Why me? Why my daughter?’

  The torch beam swivelled. It stung Spargo’s eyes.

  ‘I will ask the questions.’

  Benares returned, dumped a carrier bag on the floor and left without speaking. The door slammed again.