‘I thought you’d shoved me out of bed, Guv.’
‘Leyton, we’ve stopped.’
‘We ain’t meant to stop that quick, Guv. Just as well I landed on me bonce. No damage done.’
Skelgill reaches to release the window blind. It clatters up.
‘Stick that light off a minute.’
DS Leyton does as bidden. Skelgill stretches his frame and presses his nose up against the glass. But there is only pitch darkness beyond – not even any light from the train cast upon the surroundings. But what he does see is so close as to be out of focus – the immediate accumulation of large flakes of snow, pressed onto the window by the easterly wind. It is Mrs Leyton’s much-vaunted Baltic Blast.
‘What time is it?’
‘Er – quarter to five, Guv – near as dammit, anyway – 4:47.’
Skelgill shakes his head in an effort to expel the lingering fragments of his imaginings. ‘I dreamt we were trapped in some loop in the Midlands – like the points were stuck and we were going round in circles. We must be in Cumbria by now. Maybe Kendal neck of the woods. Somewhere in the eastern fells.’
He jumps down from his bunk and begins to pull on his jeans and shirt. He starts as he is confronted by his reflection in a hitherto unnoticed mirror and he gives his hair a vigorous rub, to no obvious effect.
‘I’ll find out what’s going on. Check Jones is okay. Knock first, mind.’
‘Roger, Guv.’
While DS Leyton fumbles for his clothes and gasps as he pulls on his socks Skelgill slips out into the corridor. It is dimly lit by a series of bulkhead lights, but otherwise deserted. He is a little surprised – but he has acted promptly and supposes the other passengers are gathering their wits – although he thought he heard the sound of a compartment being opened and closed. As he approaches the vestibule the automatic dividing door slides open and he feels an icy draught. He rounds the washroom to be confronted by an incongruous sight – one that might even hark back to his nightmare. A muscular, tanned figure – naked but for boxer shorts, Richard Bond, the ‘he-man’ so-called by Jenny Hackett – has the left-side external door of the train open and is squatting and half hanging out as if he is preparing to leap.
‘What are you doing, man?’
Richard Bond swings around – his features contract into an expression of self-reproach – perhaps that he has been caught unawares.
‘Ah – just assessing the danger we’re in.’ He rises, and hesitates for a moment. He holds out large hands, palms upwards. ‘In case we need to bail out.’
Skelgill is grimacing doubtfully.
‘And?’
Richard Bond begins to speak in short staccato bursts, with a military precision. He appears distracted – as if he is counselling himself as much as Skelgill.
‘The situation looks stable. But the visibility is under three metres. It won’t be light for three-and-a-half hours. We’re sitting ducks for an avalanche. Snow depth increasing rapidly. Need to establish if there’s been an engine fire – explosion – whether it’s an act of terror.’
Skelgill appears unperturbed by such speculation – but he is concerned that here is a man inclined unilaterally to take charge of a situation.
‘You’d better close that door. The drift builds up on the leeward side.’
Richard Bond looks sharply at Skelgill. His features briefly contract into a mixture of suspicion – that Skelgill has said something knowledgeable – and perhaps regret that he has not said it himself. But sure enough snow is swirling back into the open portal as the wind sweeps relentlessly over the top of the carriage and creates a low-pressure vortex beneath. He slams shut the heavy door with some ease. He is about to speak when the intercom crackles. It heralds an announcement – as does the clearing of a throat, and then comes Ruairidh’s voice – guttural and rolling its r’s even more harshly than before, as if he too has been rudely awakened.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – this is yer guard speaking. Fae yer own safety please remain in yer cabins. A further announcement will be made shortly.’
Skelgill steps away from Richard Bond.
‘I’m going to have a word with the driver.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Skelgill ponders for a moment. He senses the time is fast approaching when he must pull rank – but for the sake of mere irritation there is little merit in making an enemy of Richard Bond. Brash he may be, he looks competent – and as things stand Skelgill has no idea of just how difficult is their predicament. There is Lyndon B. Johnson’s principle of inside and outside tents, and all that.
‘You better put something on.’ Richard Bond is about to object. ‘You might give the driver the wrong idea.’
Whatever Richard Bond thinks Skelgill means by this (and Skelgill is not sure himself) it seems to provoke second thoughts.
‘Just a moment.’ The man steps away, then he suddenly swivels on the balls of his feet, lightly for someone of such bulk. He extends a firm hand to Skelgill. ‘Bond, Richard Bond, former captain, SAS.’
Skelgill hesitates – not intending to delay the handshake – but uncertain of how much information to impart. He settles for giving his surname – it seems to suffice, as if that is pukka form in establishment circles. Then, as he strives to match the power of the man’s grip – a disadvantage for him, having a tendency towards sinistrality – a notion strikes him.
‘What was your specialism?’
For a fleeting moment the confident big-boned face crumples – but then it swiftly regains its determined set.
‘Desert warfare – but – there are similarities.’ He breaks away and treads silently. He calls in a whisper over his shoulder. ‘One minute, max.’
While he waits Skelgill crosses to the other side of the vestibule. Snow is rapidly building up on the window. He thinks about lowering it – but there is little to be gained. He saw enough on the leeward side of the train to begin to understand something of the conditions. There was no bare ground visible, not even protruding rocks, which tells him the fallen snow is already seven or eight inches deep. It is coming down thick and fast, and the drifting is rapidly coating the train. But he is encouraged that at least the power is on; he can feel the vibration of the diesels, so they have heat and lighting for the time being. He hears Richard Bond returning, and now leads the way into the next carriage, the lounge car. To Skelgill’s surprise they find a troubled-looking Ruairidh standing in discourse with a young woman who wears a similar uniform. Simultaneously the pair present anxious faces to the new arrivals. From behind Skelgill, Richard Bond calls out.
‘We intend to consult with the driver.’
Both staff members react with a furrowing of brows – as though this is some kind of mini-mutiny by the passengers. The woman breaks away from her colleague and bars the aisle. She is small and slender, her blonde hair is tied back, her features a little plain but pleasingly regular. Her uniform together with a determined glint in her blue eyes belie her size.
‘Happen I am the driver.’
At his back Skelgill hears an intake of breath – a female in charge is plainly not what Richard Bond had in mind. But Skelgill merely grins; the woman has a local Cumbrian accent.
He decides, however, to cut to the chase – for the crew look in no mood to accommodate pushy members of the public – he can see they have enough on their plate. He slips his police warrant card from his back pocket, and holds it so that the woman only can read it.
‘I’m travelling back to Carlisle with two colleagues. They’ll be along in a moment. Anything we can do?’
It seems he is correct in assuming the driver is the more senior of the pair – and she appears to appreciate that the Detective Inspector has established a kind of private understanding between them. She glances at the guard and then looks back at Skelgill with a faintly helpless grimace.
‘We’ve run into a massive snowdrift – it was like a wall of snow. Everything went pitch dark – it’s buried the entire loco a
nd part of the first goods van. We’ve lost all traction. Forward and reverse.’
‘Do we need to abandon?’
Skelgill says this with reluctance – but the driver nods to acknowledge that the greatest risk to a train that makes an unscheduled stop is that another one smashes into it.
‘No – so long as the signalling is not down entirely. As soon as Control sees we’ve not left this sector they’ll activate red lights behind us – in any event Penrith will miss us in a few minutes. Besides, the next train northbound is the local service from Lancaster, not until 5.56. I reckon the line behind us will be impassable long before then.’
But Richard Bond picks up her initial point. He pushes forward, crowding alongside Skelgill in the aisle.
‘What do you mean, madam, so long as the signalling is not down?’
The driver glances doubtfully at Skelgill – as if for his approval to share information with this stranger – Skelgill gives a barely discernible nod.
‘We’ve got no radio signal. The transmitters hereabouts must be iced up.’
‘We can use mobile telephones.’
Now the woman brings her handset out of her shirt pocket. She glances at the guard and then waves it uselessly in the air.
‘We’re on different networks – we’ve got nothing.’
Skelgill’s phone is in his cabin – but Richard Bond produces his own – and growls.
‘So, it seems, have I.’
‘This is always a dead stretch. Besides, the embankment’s sixty foot at its highest.’
Skelgill’s expression becomes hopeful.
‘You know where we are?’
‘I think we’re in Shake Holes cutting.’
‘At Shap summit?’
There is a note of concern in Skelgill’s question, and it is mirrored by the woman’s severe expression. The climb over Shap Fell is one of the most isolated sections of the entire West Coast Main Line.
But Richard Bond pounces on the uncertainty.
‘You only think? Surely you have better systems.’
Skelgill looks a little irked. He turns to the man.
‘You’ve seen it outside – you said yourself, the visibility’s not above ten foot.’ He reverts to the driver – like the guard, she wears a badge that displays only her Christian name, and now he uses it. ‘Laura – go on, lass.’
She appears unmoved by Richard Bond’s implied criticism.
‘I’d say we passed through Oxenholme fifteen minutes before we hit the drift. There’s a snow fence to protect the cutting, but it was part demolished by gales in October. They said it wasn’t a priority to reinstate because it was only the east side that was damaged.’
Skelgill nods grimly. But the Baltic Blast has defied the prevailing winds and is blowing from the east. The driver continues.
‘I felt the snow on the rails – there must be a gradual accumulation as the drift gets worse with altitude. Normally we can deal with up to a foot. But the gradient on Shap is 1 in 75 – and it’s a continuous ascent of a thousand feet – so we were barely making fifty – I realised we were fighting a losing battle. But at least it brought us to a controlled stop.’
Skelgill grimaces wryly.
‘My oppo fell out of bed. He wouldn’t recommend the uncontrolled version.’
Skelgill can sense that Richard Bond is itching to speak; if he were a schoolboy he would be jabbing his hand urgently skywards for attention. But he can contain himself no longer.
‘You say we’re on a steep incline. And the track behind us is clear of trains.’ He does not wait for the driver to reply. ‘We can detach the rear carriage. Roll back to safety.’
This suggestion elicits a strangled ejaculation from the guard, which causes all eyes to fall upon him. Though when he makes a recovery his tone is suitably deferential.
‘Ye’ve been watching old movies, sir – the slip coach was phased out in the Sixties. There was a special coupling that could be released frae inside the carriage, and the guard used a manual brake tae bring it tae a halt.’
‘We can let the adverse gradient do that job, my man.’
Skelgill has raised an eyebrow – albeit he has to admit to a small if reluctant pang of admiration for Richard Bond’s up and at ’em attitude. However, he is not surprised when the driver moves to quash the idea.
‘We don’t have the equipment to uncouple a carriage. Even if we were able to – without brakes we could derail on a bend. And there’s always the likelihood of workers on the tracks, de-icing points. It would be too dangerous. I couldn’t do that without clearance.’
The driver’s objections are comprehensive. Richard Bond brims with frustration. Skelgill can feel his muscular form flexing, as though he is imagining himself singlehandedly shouldering the train into motion. And, frankly, if push came to shove Skelgill is sure that between them they could probably find a way. It is his inclination, too, to respond to their dilemma. But Richard Bond is treating it as a military training exercise, a challenge to be overcome by brute force and lateral thinking, and to hell with the consequences.
On this particular score the driver is right. The relevant authorities will soon be alerted – as with planes, at least there is a system in place for trains to be monitored. That the same cannot be said for automobiles, however, raises a problem for the passengers stranded on board the Midnight Express. If the forecasters’ prophecy of three days’ snow proves accurate, there will not be the resources to come to their aid. Priority of rescue will be given to hundreds if not thousands of motorists trapped in their cars, some no doubt with ill or elderly or very young passengers. And, even if the means of access were clear, the train is stranded in a near-wilderness area. Country lanes and farm tracks will be impassable. Helicopters will be grounded. One small aspect in their favour is their lack of communication – central command will want to know the degree of danger they are in. But, as a longstanding volunteer in the mountain rescue, it is plain to Skelgill – what would the emergency services actually do if they came in on foot with a satellite phone? Call to say all was well and stay until the Glenmorangie ran out?
The train driver is watching him closely. She seems to know his thoughts. She glances briefly at the guard, and then returns her gaze to Skelgill.
‘We think we’re safest on board. We’ve power – heating – food supplies – and,’ she grins wryly, ‘flush toilets.’
Skelgill is about to remark – but it is perhaps just as well that at this juncture the sliding door announces the arrival of DS Leyton, followed by DS Jones – both looking a touch dishevelled. Skelgill catches DS Jones’s eye – and she gives him a little nod to indicate all is well. He suggests they take seats in the area where Richard Bond had formerly held court. He makes the relevant introductions. At this point it becomes apparent, to those who do not yet know, what must be their occupation. Richard Bond addresses Skelgill – quite respectfully, as though conditioned by martial protocol and perhaps assuming that Skelgill effectively ranks above him.
‘Excuse me – are you British Transport Police?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘We’re common-or-garden detectives.’ He pauses. ‘But as it happens we’re based about ten miles from here.’
DS Leyton cannot help intervening.
‘C’mon, Guvnor – you’re doing yourself down.’ He holds out an arm towards Skelgill as though he is introducing him to the three civilians. ‘He’s in the mountain rescue.’
Skelgill frowns as though annoyed by the revelation – but he can sense that Richard Bond is eager for commensurate recognition. He makes a similar sweeping gesture as that employed by his sergeant.
‘This fellow – Mr Bond – has military experience. I reckon he knows a thing or two about sticky situations.’
Richard Bond’s reaction is an even less convincing affectation of modesty than that exhibited by Skelgill.
‘Please – just call me Richard – I rather feel Bond might unrealistically raise your expec
tations.’
He brays at what must surely be an old chestnut as far as he is concerned – but then his face falls when he does not get quite the response he anticipated. Skelgill instead launches into a succinct and somewhat terse assessment of their circumstances, in order to bring his colleagues up to speed. Characteristically, it falls to DS Leyton to make light of the matter.
‘Cor blimey, Guv – I’ll be in the doghouse if I’m not back for Christmas Eve. The missus will never pass for Santa!’
His riposte generates a ripple of polite and slightly nervous laughter – for many a true word is spoken in jest, and perhaps the prospect of spending several days together begins to sink in. The strained hilarity tails off. But a strident electronic bleeping abruptly punctures the little bubble of pensive silence that envelops them. Its source is above the bar area. Skelgill looks questioningly at the driver.
‘Laura – what’s that – a smoke alarm?’
But she has risen to her feet and is shaking her head.
‘Carbon monoxide.’
‘What – in here?’
‘I don’t know. The alarms are all connected in series – when one goes off, they all do. I’ll be able to tell from the control panel in the cab.’ She has her hands on her hips, emphasising her small frame and narrow waist. Her features are creased anxiously. ‘But I’ll need to shut off the diesels. It’s a safety regulation. It’s potentially life-threatening.’
Skelgill curses under his breath.
Richard Bond slaps a hefty palm on the low table before him.
‘The exhausts must be blocked by the snow. Do you have shovels on board?’
All eyes have turned to him – but now the driver inhales to speak and regains their attention.
‘The exhausts discharge directly above the engines.’ She glances at the guard for corroboration; he nods, though his expression is doubtful. ‘From the glimpse I got as we plunged into the drift, it’s at least the height of the train again. You could be talking fifteen foot of snow on top of the loco.’
Skelgill is thinking it is probably too risky to tunnel into a deep snowdrift, even if there are shovels and they were able to scale the streamlined fuselage in the raging blizzard. Meanwhile the alarm continues to bleep, like a timer counting down their decision time. He presses the driver.
Murder at Shake Holes Page 4