Will to Live

by Rachel Amphlett

  He shut the door and locked it behind him, his hand automatically finding the pull cord for the lights to his right.

  Four fluorescent tubes flickered to life amongst the eaves of the garage, illuminating the cobwebs up amongst the roof trusses. He’d insisted on installing a pitched roof after seeing the damage a winter storm had made to his neighbour’s flat-roofed garage when the rain had accumulated so much in a short space of time, the entire structure had collapsed onto the contents of the building.

  He ran his hand along the edge of the plywood platform that took up the entire back half of his garage.

  He couldn’t afford for such destruction to occur.

  Not yet.

  When all this was over, then it would be dismantled.

  By others, maybe. Not him.

  He lowered himself to the concrete floor and crawled towards the centre of the plywood circle, standing up when he reached the large gap in the middle, and cast his eyes over the landscape before him.

  Despite the issues caused by the witness to Whiting’s murder, he couldn’t help himself. Yesterday, he had driven over to the specialist shop at Canterbury and purchased a new locomotive. The scale model was perfect in every way. He’d seen it in a magazine two months ago and hadn’t been able to justify the expense to himself until now. The livery was an exact match to the railway company’s rolling stock and as he had carefully unwrapped it upon reaching home, he had salivated as he’d cast away the packaging to reveal his new acquisition.

  He had retested his calculations using the new locomotive, not because he doubted his abilities but because it seemed right to use the correct train this time. Maybe it would give him a little extra luck, to make up for the other night.

  It wasn’t entirely perfect – he’d had to make do with what materials he could buy from the specialist shop in Canterbury, and then make the rest himself.

  He didn’t mind; he found the creative process a way to relax – a way to still his busy mind, and he often found his best solutions evolved when he was concentrating on making the props that helped to bring each project to life.

  His gaze fell on the paperwork strewn across one end of the inner oval. He reached out and gathered up his notes, folding them carefully before placing them on the workbench next to him. He would burn them in the brazier outside later, after he heard his neighbour leave for the supermarket. He couldn’t afford for her to notice the smoke, otherwise she’d use it as an excuse to come around and berate him for making her washing stink.

  He turned his attention to the array of equipment in front of him. A raised panel contained a series of switches and dials.

  His fingers automatically found the power button, which he depressed with a light touch. A whirring sound began from behind where he stood, and a tingle of excitement shot down his spine.

  His mouth dry, he heard the sound draw closer as his eyes took in the miniature fields, cattle, and tiny houses.

  Another few seconds, and the model train appeared in the corner of his vision. As it rounded the bend, its speed increased and it began to tear down the track towards the tiny figurine that was lying across the steel rails.

  He held his breath and leaned closer, his hips brushing against the plywood worktop. The train passed him, and in his mind, he imagined the frantic actions of the driver as he sounded his horn at the vision of the man lying across the rails. At the precise moment, his thumb tweaked the power slightly so that the train began to lose speed.

  It was too late.

  The model train crashed into the tiny figurine and sent it flying across the fake plastic grass next to the track.

  He exhaled as the train disappeared around the next corner and reached out for the figurine with a shaking hand.

  He held it up, scrutinising the features where the train’s wheels had scratched and torn away at the once smooth moulded surface.

  He dropped it to the worktop, picked up a well-thumbed copy of the London to Maidstone timetable and his notebook, and proceeded to work out the calculations for his next project.

  Twenty-Six

  ‘We need to focus on the location.’ Sharp strode over to the map of the area pinned to the wall and pointed at the railway line that started at Maidstone East and stretched across the county and beyond to London Victoria. ‘Both Lawrence Whiting and Nathan Cox were killed on this line here. Stephen Taylor wasn’t – his body was found on the Strood line. Cameron Abbott was also killed on the Maidstone East to London line. We need to change the parameters of our search. Just because Stephen Taylor and Cameron Abbott attended the same rehabilitation programme, it doesn’t mean that their deaths are linked.’

  ‘You mean Stephen Taylor wasn’t murdered?’

  ‘Could be. We’ve assumed so far that he and Cameron were murdered, because they both appear on the attendee list for that programme. But the site of his death doesn’t match the others at all. We need to consider the fact that there is another connection. One that eliminates Stephen Taylor but links Nathan Cox, Cameron Abbott, and Lawrence Whiting.’

  ‘And our latest victim. Whoever he is.’

  ‘Nothing we can identify him with?’

  Barnes shook his head. ‘Same as the last one. No wallet, no wedding ring, nothing. Whoever our killer is, he’s smart.’

  ‘Any idea from Lucas when he’ll do the post mortem?’

  ‘A couple of days. There’s a bit of a backlog. He’s emailed us some photographs though. I’ll get one of the administrators to clean up a photo so we can use it for identification purposes when we’re talking to people.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Sharp. ‘Take a copy over to the two guys who run that rehabilitation programme and see if he’s one of theirs, so we can rule out that line of enquiry.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Guv, if our killer is so familiar with the footpath and crossings on this stretch of railway, then perhaps we need to look at whether he has worked on the railways at some time, or has another connection with them?’ said Carys.

  ‘You’re right. The problem is, we’re also going to have to widen the investigation to include ramblers’ associations, residents whose houses are near to the railway line. I’d like us to be in a position to narrow down that search before we do so. We simply don’t have the manpower.’

  Sharp ran a hand over his close-cropped hair and paced the carpet in front of them. ‘Why is he killing now? I think you’ve got a point, Hunter, that he has a list, but what triggered the killings? Notwithstanding the fact we now think Steven Taylor’s death was suicide, we still have four deaths closely linked within a four-month timeframe. What was he waiting for? Or what happened to make him start killing?’

  ‘Are you sure our killer is a man?’ said Gavin.

  ‘It’s a good question,’ said Sharp. ‘However, you’ve got to take into account whoever the killer is, he or she has had to move a body from a car to a railway line. That’s involved some steep terrain, and given that we’re presuming he’s drugging his victims first, those bodies are going to be heavy. In the circumstances, I don’t think we’re looking for a woman.’

  ‘It’s a particularly savage way of killing someone, too,’ said Carys. ‘To me, it’s the sort of thing a man would do, not a woman.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree. Our killer is being particularly careful to ensure his victims are killed by a train running over them, and not by the electrical current running through the third rail. Both Lawrence Whiting’s and our latest victim’s bodies have been positioned against the inside rail. Whoever our killer is, he’s making a point. He’s not giving his victims an opportunity to kill themselves; he’s maintaining control throughout. Whoever he is, he’s exerting a lot of self-discipline.’

  ‘Have we heard from Simon Ancaster yet?’

  ‘Got a phone call from him earlier, guv,’ said Barnes. ‘He was at work this morning, but I’ve made arrangements for us to speak to him after we’re done here. I got the impression he was genuinely shocked about Whitin
g’s death, so he might not be our killer.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Kay. ‘All the other deaths have occurred during the late afternoon and early evening commuter rush. Last night’s death was caused by an empty train returning to the depot. It wasn’t carrying any passengers. None of the other deaths happened that late before.’

  ‘Why do you think the pattern has changed?’

  ‘First, less chance of him being seen, obviously. Second, that empty train would have been travelling at a considerable speed. Okay, the driver wasn’t breaking any speed limits, but nor did he have to worry about slowing down to stop at stations.’

  ‘So he wouldn’t have been able to stop even if he wanted to.’

  Sharp’s lips thinned. ‘He’s learning from his mistakes. Whoever he is, and despite what we think about him increasing his frequency, he must have been planning this for months. He knows the train lines back to front, he knows the timetables, and he knows exactly when the last trains are run back to the depot.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s time we asked Dave Walker and his team to start questioning employees of the railway company. Ask for a list of anyone who’s lost their job prior to that first suspected killing seven months ago,’ said Kay. She held up her hand to stop him interrupting. ‘I know, it will take time. But we can’t rule it out.’

  ‘But what’s the motive?’

  ‘Maybe somebody got made redundant and holds a grudge against them. Maybe our killer blames the railway company for something.’

  ‘Maybe our killer is a passenger who got pissed off with the number of rail strikes on this line,’ Barnes grumbled.

  Twenty-Seven

  Kay stepped to one side and let Barnes lead the way through the gap in the dilapidated garden wall.

  To her left, an overflowing wheelie bin threatened to topple over, the distinct smell of discarded pizza boxes escaping from its contents. She side-stepped a pile of old newspapers that had been bound together and tossed onto the path near the bin, and wrinkled her nose at the overgrown garden.

  She turned her attention to the house. It had borne the brunt of being tenanted over the years; paint flaked from the plain front door, and the whole building carried an air of neglect.

  Barnes rang the doorbell, and turned to face her. ‘Nice place.’

  Kay rolled her eyes at him before the door opened.

  ‘Simon Ancaster?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Kay held up her warrant card, and introduced herself and Barnes.

  ‘We wondered if we could talk to you about Lawrence Whiting.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry, it still hasn’t really sunk in that he’s gone.’

  He led them through to a cluttered living room, and began to gather up magazines, takeaway cartons and an ashtray. He had the decency to look embarrassed.

  ‘I don’t often get visitors.’

  He seemed unsure what to do with the items now in his hands. In the end, he strode over to a low table and dropped everything onto it. He turned back to them. ‘Please, have a seat.’

  Kay took one look at the stained sofa, raised her eyebrow at Barnes, and resigned herself to doing an extra load of laundry that evening. She lowered herself onto the cushions, and waited while Ancaster settled in an armchair beside the television.

  ‘Simon, I understand that you knew Lawrence Whiting?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘We got on like a house on fire. We met at grammar school and used to hang around together when we both got motorbikes. Only small ones, mind, but it used to impress the girls.’ His mouth quirked at the memory. ‘He was a really good laugh. I didn’t see him that often, especially when he started suffering from depression, but I tried to leave a message on his phone once a month – you know, to let him know I was worried about him. He came over the other week at last, and I was surprised to see him looking so well after all he’s been through.’

  Kay nodded at the correlation with Ancaster’s story matching the entry in Whiting’s diary.

  ‘What was his state of mind the past month or so?’

  ‘He seemed fine. Nothing to indicate that he was contemplating suicide. Still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Can you describe your movements on the day Lawrence died?’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Please answer the question.’

  ‘I went to work as usual. Lawrence knocked on the door about an hour after I got home – we chatted over a coffee and I was going to suggest we walk down to the pub to have a drink when his phone rang. I made myself scarce – it was pretty obvious it was a private call, but when I came back to the kitchen, he had his coat on and said he had to leave. I was surprised, because I thought he was still struggling with the social side of things. I was happy to see that he was making some progress, but a bit pissed off at him going so soon after he’d arrived, especially as we hadn’t seen each other for weeks, so I asked him who he was meeting. He wouldn’t say, only that it was someone he used to know. He was really cagey about it when I questioned him. He told me to leave it alone, and that the person had asked to meet him in confidence.’

  ‘Was he normally so secretive about who he was meeting? You said earlier that you got on like a house on fire.’

  ‘I did think it a bit odd, but look – it wasn’t any of my business, so I didn’t push it. I thought maybe it was to do with his treatment or something.’

  ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘I teach at the local primary school.’

  ‘What time did you get home from work?’

  ‘About three-fifteen. There was a burst water main in the boys’ toilets, so the headmaster took the decision to close the school for the day.’ He smiled. ‘I remember thinking at the time that at least it’d give me a chance to get home and changed out of my work clothes before Lawrence arrived.’

  ‘And what time did Lawrence leave?’

  ‘He was gone by five o’clock. I remember because I looked at the clock on the oven. It was all a bit strange, to be honest.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, he’s never been the sort of person to go out of his way to socialise, and if he went to the pub it was usually because I dragged him there – and that’d be later in the day.’

  ‘And you had no contact with him after he left the house?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘All right,’ said Kay. ‘We appreciate your time, thank you.’ She handed over one of her business cards. ‘Please, if you think of anything else, give me a call.’

  As they were walking back to the car, her mind replayed the conversation. Barnes walked beside her in silence, knowing better than to interrupt her thoughts. Finally, she stopped and placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘If Lawrence left the house at five o’clock, and Elsa Flanagan didn’t see him on the tracks until quarter to seven, where did he go?’

  ‘And where’s his mobile phone?’

  ‘Harriet and her team didn’t find anything at the scene – that’s why it took so long for him to be identified.’

  ‘So, the killer enticed him out of the house and they arranged to meet somewhere. Wherever that was, Whiting’s killer overpowered him and tied him to the railway tracks, and then took all his belongings?’

  ‘Or, did he meet someone else, and then the killer followed him from there?’ Kay shook her head and began walking once more. ‘Too many questions, Ian. We’ve still got a long way to go with this one.’

  Twenty-Eight

  Kay always experienced a heightened sense of awareness when talking to the parents of a murder victim.

  Although their son had died four months ago and someone else had broken the news, at the time Nathan Cox’s parents were under the impression he had killed himself. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like for them to discover that, in all likelihood, he had been murdered.

  ‘What’s the background about the parents?’

/>   Carys cast her eyes over the printout in her hand, which she had extracted from the HOLMES2 database. ‘Derek Cox is a retired long-distance truck driver. His wife, Rose, used to work as a claims officer for one of the insurance companies in town; she hasn’t returned to work since her son died. According to the coroner’s inquest report into Nathan’s death, he had been living with them for three months prior to his death.’

  ‘How old was he when he died?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘Married, or a girlfriend?’

  ‘No one noted here. No one came forward when his death was announced in the paper, either.’

  ‘What about siblings?’

  ‘No, he was an only child.’

  ‘Christ.’ Kay sighed. ‘Okay, let’s get on with this.’

  Nathan’s father opened the door, shook hands with them both and showed them through to the kitchen.

  A large space, the walls had been painted a cheery bright yellow while the worktops held a high sheen. Kay noted the lemony scent of a popular household cleaner, and realised the couple had made the effort especially for her and Carys. Her heart went out to them, and she hoped that they had a solid network of friends to support them in their grief.

  Both Derek and his wife fussed over them for a moment, and so it was several minutes before tea orders had been taken, the kettle boiled and the four of them settled around a circular pine table.

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to see us,’ said Kay. ‘I understand this must be difficult for you and I understand my colleague here has already phoned you to let you have an update about our investigation and how it may affect the original coroner’s inquest into Nathan’s death.’

  Derek reached across for his wife’s hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. ‘To be honest, we were relieved. For the past four months I’ve been trying to understand why our son would take his own life. Obviously, we’re upset that another man has lost his life, but if it means that the police are now investigating Nathan’s death once more, then at least we might get some answers.’