Off the Rails (25 page)

‘Does the air ever get to you?’ asked Bryant.

‘It’s no worse than what’s up on the surface,’ Hale replied. ‘There’s a story going around that the air down here can cure anorexia, but I don’t believe that. There used to be plants pumping ozone into the system, but it didn’t seem to make much difference in the smell.’

Resculpted in scaffolding and blue plastic sheeting, the platform looked very different now. ‘What’s all the chicken wire for?’ asked May, pointing to the metal meshes that ran along the platform roof.

‘We can’t take all the panels off every night when we’re installing electrics, so some of these are ongoing repairs. Don’t worry, nobody could get behind them. Okay, the power’s off now. It’s safe to come down onto the tracks.’ Hale dropped below the platform edge, then helped Bryant down. ‘Don’t panic if you hear what sounds like an approaching train. It’s just the wind in the tunnels.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Our biggest problems are caused by trespassers, idiots who’ve decided to do a bit of potholing, as if they’re exploring some kind of urban cave system. They try to get in from the so-called “ghost stations” like Aldwych. There are a couple of dozen disused stations, and many more abandoned ones. Security’s a big issue these days, of course. Your lad, what was he doing down here?’

‘Catching a train, so we thought,’ said May.

‘Well, he wasn’t a jumper. We’d have found his remains by now. I’ve seen a few fried on the third rail and it’s a sight you
don’t forget. Keep your eyes on your feet—there are a few transverse cables here.’

They were moving out of the light now, into the gloom of the tunnel. The smell was different here, both sharp and musty, with a hint of electrical ozone.

‘The section to the southeast of the main station was closed off when the old Thameslink terminal shut,’ Hale told them over his shoulder, ‘but the disused platforms and the tunnel network can’t be bricked up because we still need drainage access.’

It had grown surprisingly warm. May loosened his collar. ‘Are you all right, Arthur?’ he called. He had noticed that his partner was lagging behind.

‘Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I was just watching a family of mice trying to drag a fried chicken leg home.’ Bryant caught up with them, his overcoat flapping in a sudden rogue breeze from the tunnel.

‘We’re now entering the closed-off part,’ Hale told them. ‘Not too many lights down here, I’m afraid. The power’s off, so it’s best to switch your flashlights on.’

May was carrying his Valiant, the old cinema flashlight he had used for years on investigations. The curving walls were crusted with necklaces of soot. Fibrous brown matter like carpet fluff coated the floor. ‘Skin flakes,’ said May. ‘Dan would have a field day down here.’

They had passed beyond the territory of the cleaners. Hale led them between a set of flimsy red-and-white plastic barriers, into the connecting tunnel that linked the two stations.

‘I haven’t been along here since the station was shut,’ Hale admitted. ‘You can’t cover everything.’

‘When you think about it,’ said Bryant, ‘there’s a strong link between the LU network and civil defence facilities. Didn’t part
of the Piccadilly Line become secure accommodation for the electricity board during the sixties?’

‘That’s right. The old Brompton Road station was the Royal Artillery’s Anti-Aircraft Operations Room, and part of the Central Line was turned into a sterile production unit for aircraft during the war. Safe from the bombs, see. That’s why the National Gallery stored its paintings in the tube during the Blitz.’

The darkness was almost complete now, and oppressive. A smell of burnt dust filled the air. May was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Bryant seemed entirely in his element.

‘Wait.’ May’s flashlight illuminated Hale’s raised hand. ‘I heard something.’ They came to a halt and listened. Beneath the faint susurrance of the tunnel wind they heard a snuffling, shuffling sound. ‘There.’ Hale pointed. The detectives converged their light beams.

Ahead, at the point where the tunnel broadened out into the edge of the closed station, they saw a bundle of rags shift inside walls of dirty brown cardboard.

Hale moved in and knelt down. ‘Come on out,’ he called firmly. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

A tousled head appeared above the box. The boy was in his late teens, wrapped in a blue nylon hooded jacket several sizes too large for him. He peered blearily at the trio, waiting to be given grief.

‘It’s okay, we’re not here to turn you out,’ said Bryant.

‘We bloody are,’ insisted Hale.

‘I just want to ask you a question,’ Bryant said, ignoring him. ‘Did you see a young man down here on Tuesday night, shortly after midnight?’

‘No.’

‘You were here then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Think hard. Are you sure there was no-one else?’

‘I don’t know, we hear a noise.’ The boy had a strong Eastern European accent.

‘How many of you are there down here?’ asked Hale. ‘You know you’re not supposed to be in this part of the station.’

‘What did you hear?’ Bryant asked.

‘I don’t know—somebody fall down. We hear him shout.’

‘Can you tell us where?’

A second head appeared beside the boy, a girl who was equally sleepy. ‘Over there.’ She pointed off into the dark.

‘What’s down there?’ asked Bryant.

‘It’s a short service tunnel. We used to store cleaning equipment there until Health & Safety made us move it,’ Hale explained. Turning back to the sleepers, he said, ‘I’m afraid you two can’t stay here.’

‘We only stay one week, no more,’ pleaded the boy. ‘We have job cleaning buildings in London, near—’ He consulted the other. ‘Where is it we must go?’

‘Aberdeen,’ said the girl hopefully.

‘I’ll leave you to sort this out,’ Bryant suggested. ‘John. Come with me.’

‘Don’t go far,’ Hale called after them. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

The detectives carefully made their way along the track. ‘Why would Hillingdon have come along here?’ asked May, not happy about wandering off into the darkness.

‘We’re still not far from the main Piccadilly Line platform,’ Bryant answered. ‘I bet it’s not more than a few hundred yards. It just seems further because you’re dawdling.’

‘This is a wild-goose chase, Arthur. If he’d suffered some kind of petit mal, or was simply in a state of intoxicated confusion, he’d have gone up, not down.’

‘Not if he was physically too weak to climb the stairs. What’s that over there?’ Bryant pointed ahead.

‘You can barely see in daylight, I don’t know how you can spot anything down here,’ May complained, but he went to look. The green plastic bin was the size of a man and missing its lid. It lay on its side between the tracks. As he approached, Bryant shone his torch inside.

It was hardly surprising that no-one had discovered the body. Matthew Hillingdon was curled up within, as if, in pain and desperation, he had sought the warmth and solace of an artificial womb.

T
he only way to avoid thinking about Liberty DuCaine was to keep busy. Janice Longbright finished unpacking the last of Bryant’s crates and loaded May’s computer with witness statements, then sat back to regard the chaotic room. No amount of organisation would turn it into a decent centre of operations.

The Daves had nailed cables along the skirting boards to provide extra juice, but the walls were rotten, and there seemed to be a real danger that the hole in the floor might suddenly expand and send them all down to the basement. The Daves were planning to lay new floorboards, but could not agree how to go about it. Everything was lopsided, as if a wartime bomb had shifted the building slightly off-kilter, jamming windows in their frames and causing doors to gouge grooves in the floorboards.

While the workmen argued, Longbright called in the detective constables and impatiently listened to their report. ‘Tony McCarthy doesn’t know if this is the real name of the man who
employed him,’ said Meera, ‘but he’s given us our first solid lead. Mr Fox taught English at Pentonville Prison two years ago. He was employed by the former head of educational services, but she died of cancer last year. Fox was registered in her files under the name of Lloyd Lutine, and McCarthy confirms this was the name he used.’

‘That must be an alias.’

‘Why?’ asked Meera, puzzled.

‘The Lutine Bell is in Lloyds Bank, in the city. It used to be rung once to signify bad news. Here it is.’ Longbright walked around Bryant’s cluttered desk and located a miniature brass copy of the original cracked ship’s bell. ‘A gift from a Lloyds client. Arthur used to ring it whenever a new murder case came in.’

‘Couldn’t the name just be a coincidence?’ asked Colin.

‘Come on, Lloyd
and
Lutine? I can’t believe he got security clearance on a moniker like that.’

‘He must have been confident that no-one would make the connection.’

‘Multiple killers have a kind of arrogance,’ said Longbright grimly, thinking momentarily of her mother’s death. ‘Don’t worry, when we get him this time, we’ll put him on the national DNA database. I’d like to see him fake his genetic code. Got anything else?’

‘Yeah. Fox made a friend at the prison. A history teacher. We’ve got her address.’

‘Go home. I’ll go and see her.’

‘We could do it first thing in the morning,’ Colin offered.

‘No, let me see if she’s up for a visit tonight. I’m not tired.’

It didn’t take Longbright long to walk to the Finsbury address. Georgia Conroy had the evasive eyes of a gentlewoman living in humbled circumstances. Her pale, lined face was designed
for disappointment. ‘Please, come in,’ she offered, drawing her dressing gown against the cold air and stepping back from the door. ‘I’m afraid the place isn’t very tidy. I was about to go to bed when you called.’ The flat was perfectly neat, but smelled of damp and loneliness. Longbright accepted an offer of tea, knowing that interviewees were more relaxed when they had something to do. Kitchens were places for confidences.

‘Of course, I knew the name was false the moment I heard it,’ said Georgia, rinsing a teapot. ‘Either that, or his father had been a sailor with a sense of humour. Our time at the prison overlapped by about eight months, but we were on different shifts. He took me out for a drink a couple of times, said I reminded him of his mother, not much of a compliment. I felt a bit sorry for him.’

‘Why?’

‘He didn’t seem to have any friends.’

‘Did he tell you much about himself?’

‘Only bits and pieces. He was very guarded about his private life. Hated the job. Couldn’t wait to leave. I thought we got on quite well, but one day I came in and they told me he’d resigned. He never even came back to clear out his locker.’

‘Here’s my problem, Miss Conroy—’

‘Georgia, please.’

‘Georgia. Mr Fox has killed a number of times since he left his job at Pentonville, but we’re having a hard time getting any leads. If there’s anything you can remember …’

‘He was obsessed with graveyards,’ Georgia said, without hesitation. ‘Apart from the mother thing, that’s what put me off him. When we went for a drink it was all he talked about.’

The information meshed with Longbright’s knowledge that Mr Fox had worked as a grave digger in St Pancras. ‘Did he ever explain why he was so interested in them?’ she asked.

‘Not really. But I got the feeling it was connected with his family. Some damage in the past—’ She dried the pot thoughtfully. ‘That’s it. He wanted me to go and visit his father’s grave with him, but I thought it was a weird thing to do with someone you barely knew, so I said no.’

‘Did he tell you where his father was buried?’

‘Oh, yes, Abney Park Cemetery, in Stoke Newington. I remember the family name, too, Ketch, because it made me think of Jack Ketch, the executioner employed by Charles II. I’m a history teacher,’ she added apologetically.

‘If Lloyd Lutine was a pseudonym, how did he explain that his father had a different name?’

‘He told me he was adopted. When it came to answering questions he was pretty glib, almost as if he’d rehearsed the answers.’

It was past midnight by the time Longbright reached Stoke Newington’s neglected cemetery. The gravestones seemed incongruous in their setting, surrounded by the terraced houses of a shabby North London town. Once, Isaac Newton had sat here composing hymns. Now the graveyard was wedged between betting shops and fried chicken outlets.

Longbright knew she shouldn’t have worn stockings and heels, but old habits died hard. The paths were muddy and half-buried in bracken. Sulphurous light fell from the distant street lamps, but did not penetrate the knotted undergrowth to any depth.
I must be mad,
she thought.
I’m not going to find anything useful here.

There had been one lucky break; the night caretaker had explained that only those who held plots bought before the cemetery company closed in 1978 could still be buried on the land. He directed her across the site, past the derelict
non-denominational chapel that could have passed for a set in a Dracula film, to a neglected corner swamped by nettles and briars. The lights from a row of houses supplemented her torch-beam as she searched the overgrown plots.

The small plain memorial was notable for its newness; the remainder of the headstones in the area were more than a hundred years old. She leaned closer and scraped away some kind of parasitical weed that had clamped itself to the stone. Using her mobile, she took a shot of the inscription:

The inclusion of his middle names meant that she should easily be able to track him through the electoral register.

She was just clipping her pen to her jacket pocket when she heard a scuffling noise behind her. Turning slowly, she found Mr Fox standing motionless with his legs set wide apart in the undergrowth, his hands at his sides. He was dressed in black jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt, and was staring back at her as if trying to make sense of a particularly abstract sculpture.