Another One Goes Tonight

by Peter Lovesey

  “So do I head left or right?”

  “It’s not simple. I was given a potted history. Originally there were four boxes. It was a busy junction, with trains serving the Somerset coalfield as well as the passenger routes. This one is known as Frome Middle.”

  “Yes, guv, but where is it?”

  “We’d better ask at the station.”

  No one at the station seemed to have heard of the place, but when Diamond mentioned it was in use as a house occupied by a gay couple, everyone knew. It was a reconstructed signal box a mile out of town.

  They found it without more difficulty along a stretch of disused track, a smart, two-storey building with red bricks to halfway and a wooden superstructure painted in the chocolate and cream colours of the GWR, all topped with a pitched, tiled roof and chimney. The name was displayed in brown lettering. Above this, a long row of brave, buffeted daffodils in window boxes made a stirring sight on this dismal day. End-to-end windows upstairs are a necessary feature of a signal box home.

  The small garden had more daffodils and some late snowdrops. Railway sleepers had been used to make the raised flowerbeds.

  Halliwell parked beside a Toyota on the gravel.

  The door at ground level didn’t look like the official entrance, so they went up the stairs and were greeted by an open door and a booming, “Come in, whoever you are. Heard you coming.”

  A large man, rather too large for a signal-box existence, showed them inside. Probably not much older than Diamond, he was positively youthful by comparison with the rest of Pellegrini’s friends. He was in a T-shirt, jeans and carpet slippers. The room was invitingly warm. “I’m Jake Pool and my other half, Simon, is downstairs making tea. You are the police, I take it?”

  Diamond explained who they were. “I expect everyone asks you: did you build this yourselves?”

  “Yes, it’s a cheat, I’m afraid, only a replica. The 1875 building was demolished in 1933 when they made major changes and opened a new line between the junctions at Clink Road and Blatchbridge so that the expresses and much of the goods traffic could bypass dear old Frome Station. If you want to see a genuine version, go to Didcot Railway Centre. In 1983, when we were rather more spry than we are now, we helped remove the box at Frome Mineral Junction and rebuild it there with the original materials. And already I see your eyes glazing over, so I’ll spare you further suffering.”

  Difficult to follow up a remark like that. “I don’t know about you,” Diamond said to Halliwell for politeness’s sake, “but I’ve never been in a signal box before.”

  “It’s an experience,” Halliwell said.

  “We’re juvenile enough to like it,” Jake Pool said. “Everything you see in here except the sofa beds is ex-railway. We didn’t have room for the signalling equipment, more’s the pity. The kitchen, shower and loo are downstairs, which originally would have housed the interlocking mechanism, the signal-wire wheels and the point-drive cranks. Speaking of cranks, I’ve been called one myself for going on about railway engineering. I’d better shut up. Please take a seat on the first-class upholstery from the Cornish Riviera express.”

  “There’s someone at the door.”

  “That’ll be Simon with the tea. We keep saying we should have built interior stairs. It’s no fun having to go outside in weather like this. Would you mind letting him in?”

  Halliwell opened the door to a small windswept man holding a tray of tea things.

  “Has he been boring you?” Simon asked. “Relief is at hand.” He set the tray on a polished table that was probably from some Pullman dining car. Neither visitor enquired.

  “The crockery is genuine GWR from the 1940s,” Jake said, “now becoming rare.”

  “But the tea is Lipton’s English Breakfast,” Simon said. “I’m not sure which brand they used on trains in those days. And the scones aren’t 1940s either. I made them myself this morning. I must have had a premonition we’d have visitors.”

  “Or that the law would catch up with us eventually,” Jake said with a grin. “Do make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.”

  Cream tea in a signal box. Policing is never predictable.

  “You must have heard about Ivor Pellegrini’s accident,” Diamond said when the cups were filled. “We’re following up. He’s still in a coma unfortunately, so he can’t tell us what he was doing out so early on his tricycle.”

  “Poor fellow, yes,” Jake said. “We were shocked when we heard. Our little branch of the Great Western Society has suffered terribly over the past two years.”

  “We’re the only members still standing,” Simon added. “There were seven of us at one stage. I know we’re getting on in years, but four deaths and an accident is a bad run, to say the least.”

  “You meet in each other’s houses and discuss the great days of steam, we were told.”

  “And there’s the occasional excursion. It’s as harmless as the girl guides. I can’t think why the gods decided to inflict such losses on us.”

  “The deaths were natural, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, but so many. The latest was only last May.”

  “Max Filiput?”

  “I can see him sitting in that chair where you are now, a grand old boy, over ninety,” Jake said. “He looked forward to coming here when it was our turn to host the meeting. It was the experience he came for.”

  “And my sausage rolls,” Simon said.

  “You went to his funeral,” Diamond prompted them.

  “As fine a send-off as I can remember. Good hymns, nice music and the man who gave the eulogy really had done his homework and yet managed to work in some amusing asides. He wasn’t a railway buff either.”

  “He and Max once taught together at that big college in Salisbury,” Jake said.

  “I know who you mean. His name was Cyril,” Diamond said. “Cyril Hardstaff. I learned this week that he, too, has died.”

  They almost dropped their precious teacups.

  “I find that incredible,” Jake said.

  “Extraordinary,” Simon said.

  Jake shook his head. “He was in sparkling form at the funeral, regaling us all with his stories. Witty, fully in command, unlike poor old Max.”

  “You can’t be witty from inside a coffin,” Simon said.

  “That isn’t what I meant. Max was definitely losing it towards the end.”

  “But he still hosted the meetings. I wouldn’t call him senile, just absent-minded at times, and that’s understandable at the end of a long life. Do you want more cream on that scone, officer?”

  “It is rather good.” Diamond scooped up some more. “Getting back to the funeral, I believe the solicitor, Miss Hill, made some kind of announcement when you all went back to the house.”

  “She indicated, without precisely saying so, that no one present stood to benefit from Max’s will and it later emerged that he’d left everything to the National Railway Museum.”

  “Is that Didcot?”

  “No, York. And then she told us there was a stack of paper items of no great value that Max had stipulated could be shared among his railway chums. We were welcome to help ourselves to any of them if we desired. If we desired? When you issue an invitation like that to a group of fanatics like us, you’d better stand back. The next half-hour was not dignified.”

  “Did you find anything?” Halliwell asked.

  “Several fascinating items.”

  “And who was involved?” Diamond asked. “Both of you, obviously, and Ivor Pellegrini. Was he in the thick of it?”

  “Naturally,” Jake said. “Ivor is as keen as we are. He was so eager that he elbowed some lady and tipped coffee over her skirt. I’m sure he made an apology, but he wasn’t distracted for long.”

  “If you were sifting through the papers, I don’t suppose you noticed what the others were up to—the peo
ple who weren’t collectors.”

  Simon laughed. “It’s just a blur.”

  “You can’t tell me if anyone left the room?”

  “I can tell you two of the ladies went off to the kitchen to see what they could do about the coffee stain.”

  “I don’t know why you’re asking,” Jake said. “Any of us could have slipped out and probably did. The bathroom is upstairs. We know, because we’ve been to the house often enough for our meetings.”

  “The meetings, yes,” Diamond said, willing to shift direction. “And you’ve also been to Mr. Pellegrini’s house?”

  “That’s the arrangement. We take it in turns.”

  “Where does he play host—in his workshop?”

  “Have you seen inside?” Simon asked.

  Diamond didn’t exactly tell a lie. “I can’t say I have.”

  “We’re green with envy.”

  “Was he the founder of your club?”

  “It’s not really a club,” Jake said. “Just a gathering of like-minded people. We’re an unofficial branch of the Great Western Society, not affiliated in the way some of the bigger branches are. We don’t have the numbers.”

  “We were never enough to form a branch,” Simon added.

  “More like a twig,” Jake said, “and a thin twig at that.”

  “Who started it?”

  “We’re an offshoot of the Bath Railway Society. That’s how we met. They’re interested in railways generally and some of us were looking for a more focused approach.”

  “Focused on the GWR?”

  “We’re anoraks and proud of it,” Simon said. “Jake and I first met as teenagers collecting train numbers on Paddington Station. Did you know that the term ‘anoraks’ was first used about train-spotters? The anorak is the perfect garment for standing on the most exposed bits of draughty station platforms, your large pockets filled with notebooks, your ABC of locomotives and, of course, your sandwiches. So that’s us, glad to be gay, ardent to be anoraks.”

  Jake smiled. “But the rest of the world thinks we’re barmy.”

  “Not by my reckoning.” Diamond was trying to find a way of asking about the cremation urns without revealing that he’d seen them himself. “Mind you, we had our doubts about your friend Ivor.”

  “Why was that?” Jake said. “He’s the sane one. You don’t want to be put off by the clothes he wears.”

  “It wasn’t the clothes. It was a remark he made about hops when he was stopped by a police car.”

  “HOPS—the electrification project?”

  “We didn’t know that at the time.”

  “He was probably on his way to watch them at work with their special factory train.”

  “That wasn’t the only strange thing he said. He had a plastic pot in his saddlebag that he claimed contained the ashes of his late wife, Trixie.”

  “Is that so?” Jake’s attention switched to Simon. “Have you topped up the teapot?”

  A clear attempt to get over an awkward moment.

  Diamond didn’t hold back this time. “To cut to the chase, gentlemen, we’ve done our research. His wife wasn’t cremated. She was buried. The urn must have contained the ashes of someone else. Your friend Ivor was on his way to scatter them secretly somewhere along the railway.”

  Neither of their hosts said anything.

  “It’s not a criminal offence,” Diamond added, “but Network Rail wouldn’t look kindly on it. Was such a thing ever discussed at your meetings?”

  “I’d better boil some more water downstairs,” Simon said.

  “No you don’t,” Diamond said, gesturing to him to sit down. “I want an answer from you.”

  “About the scattering of ashes?” Simon said, as if he hadn’t understood. He turned to Jake. “Do you have any memory of this?”

  “We’re not the transport police,” Diamond said. “No one’s in trouble. I’m only trying to confirm what Ivor was doing that night.”

  Jake had been staring into his cup as if he wished he could dive in. Now he looked up. “There is an understanding between us that when our time comes and we are cremated, someone will unite our remains with the railway we love. Up to now, this service has been performed by Ivor. I expect the ashes were those of Max. While HOPS is in progress it’s not unreasonable for a railway enthusiast to be out and about at night.”

  “Ivor did the same for the three who died previously?”

  “He did.”

  “That’s what I wanted to know. It’s clear you put a lot of trust in him.”

  “He’s a great guy, the mainstay of the group. This accident is catastrophic.”

  “I’m getting the picture of a group of people sharing an interest so strongly that you thought nothing of inviting them all to your homes. It’s all very cosy. But in any group there are going to be differences of opinion, misunderstandings, even the occasional flare-up. I don’t suppose your lot were any different.”

  “What are you getting at now?” Jake asked.

  “You spoke about Max losing it towards the end. He had some fine antiques and jewellery in that house in Cavendish Crescent. Was there ever any talk of things disappearing?”

  “Hold on a minute,” Jake said, colouring noticeably. “Don’t get me wrong. Losing his concentration, not his property.”

  “Some items did go missing,” Diamond said.

  “Railway items?”

  “Pieces of his late wife’s collection of antiques and jewellery.”

  Jake swung to Simon in surprise. “Did you ever hear him speak of this while we were there?”

  Simon shook his head. “I’m appalled if it’s true.”

  “I’m afraid it is,” Diamond said, “and Max was troubled enough to mention it to his doctor.”

  “Did he suspect any of us?”

  “He didn’t name anyone.”

  “And are you suggesting things were taken at the funeral?”

  “It was the last opportunity the thief would have.”

  “But there were other people present. Neighbours, his cleaning lady, the solicitor.”

  “His old friend Cyril,” Jake said. “And the woman who came with him. Don’t just point the finger at us railway buffs. If we wanted to steal anything, it wouldn’t be jewellery. It would be a locomotive name-plate.”

  Diamond believed him.

  17

  “Why exactly am I doing this?” Keith Halliwell asked nobody in particular towards the end of the day. He hadn’t struck gold with any of the local care agencies. He hadn’t struck anything at all, but he soon would, the way he felt. He was still trying to trace Jessie the housekeeper, giving Cyril’s name and address, and getting more frustrated with each call.

  Then he spoke to someone who put yet another doubt in his head. “The person you’re looking for may not have gone through an agency. She could have been freelance.”

  He stepped into Diamond’s office.

  “Guv, I’m wondering if there’s an easier way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Going back to the village and knocking on doors.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “All the hours I’ve spent on this already, I could have driven to Little Langford and back several times over. Cyril was an outgoing guy. The locals must have known him and they probably knew Jessie as well.”

  Diamond saw the sense in what his deputy was saying. He, too, doubted whether it was worth spreading the net any wider. Local knowledge might be the key. “You’ll be on your own, I’m afraid. When will you go—tomorrow morning?”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Right. Get the local map on your screen,” he said, to demonstrate his computer know-how. “I’ll show you where the cottage is.”

  Halliwell grinned. “No need. I can use the satnav.”


  “Okay—be like that.”

  “If I see Cyril’s niece Hilary is it any use asking her?”

  Diamond shook his head. “She’s not local and she doesn’t know Jessie’s surname. Talk to her by all means, but take my advice and don’t offer to move the furniture.”

  That evening, Paloma came to the house and gave him a back massage.

  “You may need to see a chiropractor,” she said.

  “I don’t hold with that sort of thing.”

  “You don’t have to do the holding. They hold you. It’s your spine that’s hurting, isn’t it? That’s their speciality. What I’m doing is superficial. It has no lasting effect.”

  “Wrong. I’m feeling better by the second.”

  “Until you try and sit up. What have you got against chiropractors? Don’t tell me you’d rather suffer than get help.”

  “The body cures itself eventually.”

  “Why ask me for a massage, then?”

  “That’s different. You take away all the stresses of the day. Magic hands. Shall I turn over now?”

  “I’m working on your lower back. If you’re looking for some other kind of massage, go to someone else and pay for it.” Her tone softened. “Are you really under stress?”

  “Remember the Fortuny gown?”

  “How could I forget? That’s my idea of magic. Have you solved the mystery yet?”

  “I thought I had.”

  “But something isn’t right? Hence the stress?”

  “You’ve got it. I’m struggling. Most of my theories are falling apart. I realise I’ve done too much theorising and not enough solid detective work. But it’s like no case I’ve ever worked on. For one thing it’s unofficial. Keith and Ingeborg are helping, but no one else knows what’s going on. And the main suspect is on life support and there’s a shortage of witnesses.”

  “Can’t you make it official?”

  “Georgina would go spare. The Independent Police Complaints Commission are with us trying to work out whether Pellegrini—he’s my suspect—was injured through a driver error or some other mistake on our part. He’s painted as the victim, you see.”

  “If he’s as badly injured as you say, he is a victim.”