Stracandra Island

by Graham R Swift

  “Have you done this journey to Glasgow before?” Bayer asked one of the ratings, casually.

  “This isn’t the Glasgow train mate, is it Dixie?” the rating sniggered, turning to his friend for confirmation to his question.

  “What’s that?” the burly seaman asked.

  “This geezer here thinks he’s on the bleeding Glasgow train.”

  “No mate! This sod’s going to Newcastle, that’s the train you want, there,” he said, pointing at the neighbouring train.

  Bayer made a look of surprise as he felt the train begin to move. “Well, there’s only one thing to do,” he answered, dropping the carriage door window and reaching for the handle.

  “You can’t do that mate, you’ll kill yourself!” the rating shouted, as he looked on at his foolhardiness.

  “Watch me!” he cried out, sitting down in the open doorway, then using the running board for support, he launched himself onto the track bed below. He landed hard but was able to stay on his feet, coming to a stop several metres in front of the stationary adjacent train.

  “You crazy bastard!” the sailor cried out, closing the carriage door.

  Bayer didn’t respond as he sprinted across the lines to the up-ramp and onto the platform, unobserved by the waiting engine crew. He found a compartment occupied by a couple who Bayer estimated were in their late seventies; sliding back the door he asked if the seats were taken, only to be told they weren’t in a broad Scots accent. Glad they didn’t want to engage in conversation, as the man settled down to read a book and the woman to her knitting, this gave him time to plan his next move when the train arrived at its destination. He couldn’t see any problems for his onward movement into the Highlands; the difficulty would be stealing a boat and sailing it to Stracandra Island before the boat’s owner realised it was missing and alerted the authorities.

  “Would it be Scotland you’re making for?” the old lady asked, taking a respite from her knitting.

  “Yes, it is,” Bayer acknowledged, looking at the old lady which brought thoughts of his own mother back in Germany.

  “On leave are you?” she asked, removing her glasses to massage her tired eyes.

  Bayer didn’t like being questioned about his movements so decided to bring the conversation to a close. “You could say that! But if you don’t mind I’d like to try and catch up on some rest as I have been travelling for quite some time,” he told her sharply, which had the desired effect.

  The compartment’s shaded lights gave off an eerie glow as he awoke from his slumber to find the train at a standstill. The couple in the opposite corner were both asleep, so cautiously, he eased back the blind. The track ahead curved to his advantage and he could make out in the distance the red stop light glowing in the mist that covered the surrounding landscape. Bayer had no way of knowing where they were or how long they had been stationary; checking his watch he roughly calculated that they must be in the Cumbria area. The sound of muffled voices and doors being opened and closed put him on the alert; quietly leaving his seat so as not to awaken his two fellow travellers, he slowly opened the compartment door. The subdued blue bulbs shrouded within their narrow metal cylinders gave off little light along the corridor but his expertise in recognising danger when it was close at hand put him immediately on the defensive as the two men in civilian clothes came towards him.

  “Going somewhere, are we?” the lead man asked in a surly voice, while blocking the corridor with his large frame.

  “I was going to the lavatory, if you must know,” he replied sarcastically.

  “Where did you board the train?” the second man enquired in a more polite manner.

  Bayer studied the two men for a few moments before answering. “What’s this all about, and who are you people?” he asked, his hand clasping the knife hilt in his pocket.

  “We are with the Railway Police, now just answer the question!”

  Bayer knew if push came to shove, he would need an edge if he had to kill the larger of the two men; his heavy build would warrant him killing him as quickly as possible so he could turn his attention on the second man and eliminate him before he could retaliate or raise the alarm.

  “I got on the train in Manchester,” he lied, stalling for time. He knew he had made, through tiredness, the one basic mistake that he shouldn’t have, and that was to purchase a through ticket to Scotland. All agents knew to only buy tickets for short journeys, that way it eliminated the very situation he was in now if they asked to see his ticket, which had Lichfield on it with the time and date.

  “That is rather strange; the ticket inspector on the train from Lichfield reported a man fitting your description being on that train; he described your height, build and even the clothes you are wearing, exactly,” the heavily-built officer answered, his face only inches away from Bayer’s

  “Well, he must be mistaken, mustn’t he?” Bayer responded with a set look on his face.

  “Maybe. But we can soon clear this up, can you show us your ticket sir?” the smaller man asked.

  Guntram Bayer knew the game would be up as soon as he produced the ticket, so now was the time to make his move while the train was at a standstill and he could make good his escape; but he still needed a slight edge, or better still a distraction, which he had already thought of.

  “Before I show you my ticket, can I see some identification to prove who you say you are?” he asked, his hand easing the knife from his pocket.

  Neither men spoke but, more or less in unison, reached in their inside pockets to take out their relevant identification cards for verification.

  That split second was all Bayer needed, as both men were distracted. With lightning speed he drove the knife blade deep into the large man’s chest. Although badly hurt, the man lunged forward with the ferocity of a raging bull, his action making him take several steps backwards which gave him the space he needed to make a second strike in the area of the man’s heart. Dying from his severe wounds, the policeman sank slowly onto the carriage floor clutching his chest. The quick reaction of the second police officer took Bayer totally by surprise as he launched himself over his colleague, his momentum taking Bayer to the floor with the man on top of him, his hand gripping his wrist in a vice-like hold. Unable to use the knife, he struck out in desperation at the man’s head with his left fist but with little effect. Bayer couldn’t believe the man’s strength for his size, as he returned stinging blows from his fist and a head butt which burst his nose, the blood temporarily blinding the vision in his right eye. Bayer recognised a street fighter when he saw one and knew he had to end this as quickly as possible before help came from either a fellow passenger or the guard. Pushing upwards, but still taking punches, he managed to grip the handle of the Walther and with his remaining strength, force the gun’s barrel into the man’s stomach, the two shots ceasing the man’s fighting spirit. Bayer knew he had been in one hell of a fight from the pain he was feeling to his head and face as he roughly pushed the dead man to one side and stood up. The fight and shots had brought about a flurry of activity from the other compartments as doors were opened and figures appeared, shocked at what they saw.

  “Get back in your compartments, before I kill you all!” he shouted in rage, firing a shot at random into the carriage woodwork, sending splinters flying in to the air. Moving back cautiously to his compartment, he found the Scottish couple cowering in the corner; as he slid back the door to retrieve his travel bag, levelling the Walther at them, he had just been about to eliminate them to stop them giving his description to the police when the uniformed figure of the guard appeared, shouting at him to stop. Wiping away the blood from his face, Bayer managed to raise a smile at the elderly guard’s audacity as he aimed and fired, the bullet sending him reeling backwards against the wood panelling behind before sliding down onto the floor, blood seeping through a neat hole in his white shirt. Turning his attention back towards the terrified couple, who were now pleading not to be killed, Bayer suddenly had a slight
feeling of remorse; the old woman now begging was so much like his own mother in many ways and also, did it justify killing them when all the carriage had seen his face and could give the police a good description? Hell, he’d have to kill everyone in the carriage to stop that happening and he had neither the time nor ammunition to carry that out. “It’s your lucky day,” he smirked, closing the compartment door.

  *

  Crossing the down lines he scrambled up the steep embankment; stopping at the top to catch his breath he looked down on the stationary train, and listened to the shouts of the panic stricken passengers as they emerged from their compartments and saw the full reality of what had taken place. Bayer knew it wouldn’t be long before a hue and cry went out baying for his blood so he needed to put as much distance between himself and the train before the area was sealed off by the authorities. Climbing over a dry stone wall, he dropped down onto what seemed liked pastureland and set off at a steady pace; the wet grass soon penetrating his shoes while the dense mist reduced his visibility to only a few metres. The sound of movement abruptly brought him to a standstill as he strained to hear from what direction it was coming from; drawing the Walther, he crouched down to make himself a smaller target as he slowly swept the area in front of him for any sign of human activity. Movement to his left and centre made him immediately flatten out, the wet grass quickly seeping through his clothing into his tired body. Reluctant to fire at a target he couldn’t see, all he could do was wait for whatever materialised. It had been the characteristic bleat of a sheep that he first heard before the black face of the animal appeared, its facial expression showing signs of utter fright which quickly made it dart back into the safety of the mist for protection, unaware how close it had come to getting a bullet between its eyes. Cursing, Bayer stood up and put the Walther back in the waistband of his trousers. Resuming walking, he soon began to realise he was becoming disorientated in the swirling mist and deciding on a change of direction, he walked for what seemed an age before he was suddenly confronted by an overgrown hedgerow, its centre entwined with rusted barbed-wire. Instinct told him to go left which ultimately brought him to a wooden gate which gave access to a well-used farm track. A dog barking in the distance to his right made up his mind for him which direction he should take, so keeping between the water-filled ruts, he eventually came to a two-lane highway. The lack of any traffic and with no idea where he was, Bayer decided to keep to the road for ease of walking and the possibility of finding some form of transport as quickly as possible. Ignoring several farm entrances because of the risk of dogs alerting the sleeping household, he was close to the limit of his endurance when the dark shape of a small cottage materialised; and adjacent to the garden wall was a crudely erected wooden lean-to and under it, he could make out the distinctive lines of a van. On closer inspection, he found the driver’s door unlocked and the keys in the ignition.

  “There must be a God,” he whispered to himself, throwing his travel bag onto the passenger seat as he slipped in behind the wheel. The cold engine was sluggish to start taking its toll on the van’s battery and he thought he was going to have to abandon the idea when the engine suddenly burst into life. Leaving the lights off, he hastily reversed it out on to the road with its noisy engine; which Bayer was sure would awaken its owner. Surprised at no movement from within the confines of the cottage, he took his time to locate the switch for the vehicle’s lights before moving off and was thankful the mist was beginning to lift slightly as he eased his way along the deserted road. The unexpected shape of a large goods vehicle crossing in front of him was all the warning he had that he had reached a main road. Turning sharply and accelerating through the gears, he soon caught sight of the single rear light of the lorry whose driver seemed to be keeping up a good average of speed for the conditions. It wasn’t long before the dark shapes of buildings appeared and Bayer realised he was coming into a large town; it was a small sign above a shop advertising Kendal Mint Cake that tipped him off as to where he was. Bringing the van to a stop, he studied the map for a few minutes as to the best course to take; he knew it would be foolhardy to keep to the main roads as the police would by now be setting up road blocks on all the main arterial routes, although he did find it strange that there didn’t seem to be any police activity in the town centre. The map showed his choice in minor roads was limited out of Kendal, the A685 to Low Borrowbridge, then cut across country using the rural back roads to the A66 seemed his best chance to avoid capture.

  *

  The police check point had been strategically placed on a stretch of the road which had no side roads off it, so all Bayer could do was sit and wait, which gave him time to check the Walther for ammunition. As he edged closer to the inspection point, he noticed, set back off the road, an Army vehicle whose occupants were assisting the police in their search. With his cover story ready and his coat half-unbuttoned for quick access to his weapon, he eased slowly forward, winding down the side window.

  “Could I ask you where you have come from sir?” the police officer asked, stooping to look in the van.

  “I’ve come from my farm near Killington,” Bayer answered, the name he’d picked at random while he had been sat waiting.

  “And what’s the name of this dung hole?” the soldier enquired, somewhat aggressively.

  Bayer looked at the two men for a few moments to think of a name before responding. “High Vale, if you must know, and I don’t care much for your tone,” he replied, focusing his attention on the soldier.

  “I’m sorry about that sir,” the constable cut in, looking at the soldier, then at Bayer. “It’s just that there has been a rather nasty incident on a train and the perpetrator who carried out the act is on foot and somewhere in the area.”

  “Oh, I see. Anybody hurt?” Bayer asked with a look of concern.

  “Yes. I’m afraid there have been some fatalities,” the police officer said quietly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “So could I ask you where you are making for sir?”

  Bayer knew he’d got the young officer onside with his caring manner. “I’m on my way up to Brough to pick up some bags of cattle food for my livestock,” he smiled.

  “I see, have you seen anybody on foot or trying to get a lift since leaving home?” the constable asked.

  “No! I haven’t seen anybody.”

  “Can we check the rear of the van?” the soldier asked in a more agreeable manner.

  “Help yourself, I think the back doors are unlocked,” Bayer replied, twisting around in his seat to watch the proceedings.

  “Thank you sir, you can be on your way now,” the police officer said politely, switching off his torch after their inspection and also conscious of the build-up of traffic waiting behind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  MAYNARD’S FACE had a look of weariness on it. The frustration at getting no nearer to catching Gilbert or the Raven and the lack of a decent night’s sleep was beginning to show. He had been in Manchester interviewing the two railway police officers and the ticket collector from the Lichfield train when he was given the details about the incident near Kendal, which Maynard knew instinctively was the Raven’s handiwork. It had been mid-afternoon by the time transport had been organised and he arrived at Kendal police station, then taken to see the carriage where the killings had taken place.

  “It’s a bit of a walk across the fields there sir, to where the police officer is,” the young constable told him, pointing to where he had to go.

  “Is Inspector Vines there?”

  “Yes, he is sir.”

  “Thanks!” Maynard replied, setting off in the direction he had been told.

  Climbing over a wooden gate, Maynard reached the top of the banking and was immediately met by a police sergeant accompanied by a constable.

  “Can I help you?” the sergeant asked somewhat abruptly.

  Showing his identity card, “Maynard!” he answered. “I believe your Inspector Vines has been
told I’m coming.”

  “Yes, he has sir, if you would like to follow me I’ll show you where he is. It is rather a mess in there.”

  “Three dead I was told?” Maynard said, noting the look of revulsion on the sergeant’s face.

  “Yes, that’s right, and by all accounts it could have easily been more. Now, if you would like to climb aboard here sir, you will find the Inspector there.”

  “Thanks for your help Sergeant,” he replied, before climbing up the makeshift steps where he was confronted by a tall lean-looking man in a dark grey suit, who Maynard estimated to be in his middle to late forties.

  “Inspector George Vines. You must be Henry Maynard from MI5?” he asked, holding out his hand for Maynard to shake.