Murder At Deviation Junction (9 page)

    'Reckon
it was one of your murders?' he said.

    The
first case I'd taken on in the force had been a murder, and it seemed no one in
the office had been able to get over the fact.

    'I'm
sure of it,' I said, and as I spoke the words, I wondered about them: yes, the
connection of the death of Peters with the Travelling Club that had disappeared
made the matter a certainty.

    'All
oranges are the same,' Baker said again.

    'What
about tangerines?' Crawford was saying.

    'Tangerines
are not oranges,' said Baker.

    'They
fucking well are,' said Crawford.

    Wright,
wiping his mouth with his mucky handkerchief, pointed to the swear box that sat
on his desk, which was a shortcake tin with a hole stabbed through.
Necessary
swearing was permitted - swearing in the line of duty, so to
speak - but Crawford's remark hardly counted.

    Crawford
ignored Wright, who looked at me again.

    'Reckon
you'll be permitted to investigate?' he said.

    'It's
up to the Chief,' I said.

    Wright
shook his ghostly old head, which was about two inches above the level of his
desktop as he gnawed at the fruit. 'No,' he said. 'It's up to Shillito. He's
your governor.'

    'Tangerines
are oranges,' said Crawford. 'That's what they're called: tangerine-oranges.'

    'Answer
me this then,' said Baker. 'What colour are tangerines?'

    'Orange,'
said Crawford.

    'No,'
said Baker, 'they're
tangerine-
coloured.'

    'Leave
off, lads, will you?' said Wright, who turned to me again, saying, 'It'll be a
matter for the Northern Division, any road.'

    'Tangerines
are a sub-species of oranges,' Crawford said. 'Take this office now: we're all
policemen, but some of us -'

    '—
have got more pips than others,' said Wright.

    Everybody
looked at him.

    'That's
funny, is that,' he said, but he was as surprised as anyone; and if anybody
meant to laugh, they hadn't got round to it by the time Detective Sergeant
Shillito stepped into the room.

    'Morning
all,' he said, removing his topcoat and bowler and taking his seat at his desk,
which was directly opposite mine. 'Your book please, Detective Stringer.'

    I
stood up, and passed him my notebook. He was supposed to initial it at the end
of every turn, though he always made a great palaver out of doing so. Everybody
watched him as he read. They all knew I was going to be rated by him - it was
just a matter of when. Beyond the window, a train was leaving Platform Four,
and I wished I could do the same.

    I
looked at Shillito's wide, sloping face. I sometimes fancied that he looked
like a big Chinaman, though he was from Grimsby originally, and not at all
yellow but bluish about the jaw and otherwise red, for he was a keen tippler.
Why was he down on me? There'd been the matter of that murder case three years
before, the biggest piece of business ever seen in the York office, and only me
and the Chief in on it. And then there was the fact that I was aiming to be
made up to his rank, even though a good deal younger than him (twenty-seven to
his thirty-four). I also knew very well that he saw me as a dreamer, a
schoolboy train-watcher, whereas he was on the railway force only by default.

    Engines
and the pages of a Bradshaw held no fascination for Shillito, but if there was
anything coming off in the way of sport, he had to be involved: football,
cricket, rugby, billiards - and especially football. He'd play most weekends,
but sometimes had to be content with running the line, or shouting on his
mates, for he was forever under suspension for violent tactics, and he was
forever moaning about it. He'd sit in the office composing letters to the
Yorkshire
Evening Press
complaining about referees, signing himself only 'an
interested spectator' or 'one who is concerned about standards' or such, and
never letting on that the referee in question had sent him off the previous
weekend for loosening some poor bloke's teeth. Shillito ought to have
been
a sportsman. He'd been on Northern League forms for some professional lot or
other - before he'd blown up with the gallons of beer he put away. Instead,
he'd joined the police, and missed his mark in so doing. His perpetual fear was
that all the business of investigation, diary-keeping and report-filing would
spin out of control if he once relented in the regime of drudgery that he
imposed on himself and others.

    He
fell to reading the notebook, frowning at the pages as was his way. He himself
wrote in a tiny backward-sloping hand, and anything in a slightly freer style
he took against. Turning from the third to the fourth page of my account, he
sighed and said, 'And the ink flows on, Detective Stringer.'

    Up
your arse, I thought.

    He
continued reading.

    'Must
you always set down the type of engine that has pulled your train?' he
enquired, after a further minute of reading.

    I
kept silence.

    'Answer
me, man,' he said, not looking up.

    'Can't
help it, sir,' I said.

    'What
do you mean by that?'

    'I'm
coached up in observation.'

    Did
this amount to insubordination or not? It seemed that Shillito could not quite decide,
which is what I had intended. I wished I had the courage to show him my mind:
to let him know that I considered him failing in his duty by never providing
any encouragement. The wife had told me to speak out, not understanding that my
position would be at risk if I did so.

    He
looked up again.

    'And
what's all this about the weather: "the snowfall was now severe ... the
snowfall, continuing severe ..."?'

    'It
had a bearing on events,' I said.

    'What
events, Detective Stringer? You were sent north to bring in Clegg. Why did you
not give chase when he ran out of the steel mill?'

    'That's
not the place for a sprint, sir,' I said.

    Again
he digested the remark. Ought he to flash into rage? I could see him weighing
the question. He rarely did so in his place of work, and that was where he
differed from my first evil governor, Stationmaster Crystal.

    'Now
this business of the body -' said Shillito. 'It's a simple enough matter: you
are right to make mention of the discovery and of the fact that you stumbled on
an acquaintance of the dead man. But then we have page after page about this
journalist, and yet more about this Travelling Club and their special
carriage.'

    'The
dead man was interested in it.'

    'Well,
I'm not.'

    Why
would he not sign the bloody book and have done?

    'If
this becomes a murder investigation,' he said, 'the Travelling Club
may
become of account. But it seems to me a clear case of suicide.'

    'It
warrants investigation,' I said.

    He
shook his head.

    'Do
you intend asking my permission to pursue the matter?'

    'Yes,'
I said, and he looked at me until I put in the word 'sir'.

    'I
thought so. And yet you won't keep abreast of the baggage claims.'

    This
was the only reasonable grounds for complaint that he had. I found the
interception of fare-avoiders dull work, but I stuck at it nonetheless. Baggage
claims were a different matter. Whenever luggage was reported stolen, and
compensation put in for, I was required to write a report - a 'flash report' as
it was called for some mysterious reason. If I found any suspicion of fraud,
the Company would fight the claim, but I never did find any. It was all old
ladies who'd lost cats, folk thrown into despair by the loss of some article
quite useless to the general run of humanity - and very
boring.

    'And
what about the cardsharpers on the Leeds train?' asked Shillito.

    There
had been reports of gaming on York-Leeds evening trains.

    'You
are also to see Davitt arrested and charged.'

    Davitt
was a York citizen and notorious fare-avoider. He travelled all over the shop,
always without a ticket, and it seemed to me that not paying the fare was the
whole
purpose
of his travel.

    The
constables were now quitting the office for fear that Shillito would begin
asking about their own neglected duties.

    'Above
all, you are also to go after friend Clegg again,' Shillito continued, '- and
this time you are to gain your object, Detective Stringer. These are your
priorities. As for starting up murder investigations in the territory
controlled by other divisions of the force - how do you think that will go down
with the Middlesbrough fellows?'

    Now
this was the meat of the question, and I could see Shillito weighing it in the
balance just as I had - only where my aim was my own advancement, his was to
check me.

    Captain
Fairclough, who was to interview me on Christmas Eve, had particular
responsibility for the Northern Division as well running the entire North
Eastern force. By interesting myself in the Paul Peters business . . . well, he
might not take kindly, nor might his men. Set against that was the fact that
here was a chance to make an impression. I might throw light on the Peters
mystery before the interview, then make free with my findings.

    There
again
, whatever I discovered, Shillito would discover also, through his
reading of my notebook. If I turned up anything of interest, he would claim the
discovery as his own, and so get points with the Middlesbrough men for himself.

    I had
been going over this most of the night before, while attending to Harry at
hourly intervals, and it seemed I had no choice. As my senior officer, Shillito
would write a report for consideration by Captain Fairclough. It would not damn
me on all counts. Shillito would try to seem mild, and outside the field of
play he was not up to any really bold stroke. But it would not be favourable,
no matter how many flash reports I filed between now and Christmas. My best
hope of promotion was to bring off something sensational that would outweigh
all of Shillito's carping.

    'You
are to go north again tomorrow,' he said. 'You are to lay hands on the suspect,
and this time no excuses will serve. I will make arrangements once again for you
to take Clegg to the Middlesbrough station police office.'

    He
knew I would use the opportunity to bring up the matter of Paul Peters, to ask
after any crime reports touching on it. Shillito had decided to give me enough
rope to hang myself.

    'Do
you not have a home address for Clegg?' I said, not fancying another visit to
the iron-making hell, horribly fascinating though it was.

    'No,'
said Shillito, 'but I do know that they change shifts on Wednesdays. Tomorrow
is Wednesday, and they'll be stopping work at two o'clock, when Clegg and his
pals always go off to the same public house.'

    I
kept silence as he eyed me; this low pub of his would be another lion's den. He
was turning the pages in his own orderly little notebook.

    'It's
called the Cape of Good Hope,' he said presently, 'and it's on Randall Street.'

    'Where's
that when it's at home - sir?'

    Now
this
was
pure sauce on my part, and Shillito tilted his head back and
looked at me over the top of his wide, flat nose. It was the danger signal, as
I knew. For all his methodical ways, Shillito was not above clouting any man. I
counted my heart-throbs as he contemplated me, but the situation cracked when
Wright spoke up:

    'That
game of yours, Ernest - how did the score stand when the scrap broke out?'

    'There
was no scrap, Mr Wright,' said Shillito, making great play of the 'Mister'.
'There was simply an aggravated assault, committed by a man who unaccountably
remains at large.'

    Silence
in the police office - for he had not answered the question.

    'As
to the score - do you mean the score as adjudged by the referee?'

    'Well...
yes,' said Wright.