The Last Train to Scarborough (5 page)

'Well
then ... he could overnight in York.'

'But
he chose to do it in Scarborough.'

The
Chief was eyeing me; I glanced down at the newspaper clipping.

'Paradise,'
I said at length. 'It's a good name for a rooming house.'

'It
might be,' said the Chief, blowing smoke and grinning at the same time, 'and it
might not be. It just depends what it's like.'

'And
you want me to find out?'

The
Chief looked away, saw Wright on the stage, looked back.

'Of
course it's odds-on he made away with himself,' he said. 'All his belongings
were left in his room except the suit he wore. He was a gloomy sort, by all
accounts. He probably just went off in the night and jumped in the sea.'

'But
then the body would have been washed up?'

'Not
everything that falls in the sea off Scarborough is washed up,' said the
Chief,'. . . thank Christ. Now our lot in Leeds have been looking into the
matter with the Scarborough Constabulary.'

'And
what have they found out?'

'Fuck
all,' said the Chief, who then removed a bit of tobacco from his front teeth
and said again, 'Now ...'

But
this was followed by silence, as the Chief again eyed old man Wright, who was
sitting
up
on the stage now, looking somehow like a little boy. The Chief
was looking daggers at Wright; he then fixed me with the same evil stare, as
though Wright's behaviour was somehow my responsibility.

'It
struck the
Leeds
blokes', the Chief continued, 'that they ought to send a
man to stay over at this house, and see how things stand, and to do it on
Sunday so as to get the Sunday lot of guests.'

'Why
have they not done it then?'

'Well,
they've been a bit short-handed.'

The
Chief had softened his tone now. He was so variable in his speech that you did
wonder whether fifty years of hard drinking and blows to the head might not be
catching up with him.

'I
see,' I said. 'And that's why they've taken five months to get round to the
idea?'

'What
brought it on was that the house has started advertising for railway men
again.'

'Where?'

'In
the engine shed at Scarborough. Other places beside.'

'If
they're posting adverts in the engine shed they must be on the List.'

There
was a list of private boarding houses close to stations that had been approved
by the Company for taking in railway men on late turns. Sometimes the Company
paid the boarding houses directly; sometimes the railway blokes paid out of
their own pockets and claimed the money back later.

'They
were on it all right,' said the Chief, 'and they've never been taken off it.'

'How
many engine men had gone there before Blackburn?'

'None.
He was the first.'

'So
you might say that, so far, no railway man has gone to the Paradise guest house
and survived to tell the tale?'

'Well,'
said the Chief as once again the smoke spilled from the sides of his grinning
mouth, 'I'm hoping you'll be the first. You see, the Leeds blokes thought it'd
be quite a clever stroke to send a copper who could make on he was a North
Eastern fireman - just to see if there was anyone in the house who might have a
grudge against the Company, or against railway blokes as a breed. Only they
don't have any men who can fire an engine.'

Silence
between the Chief and me; he dropped his cigar and stood on it.

'You're
a passed fireman, aren't you?' he said at length. 'You fired engines until you
ran that loco into the shed wall.'

I
was not having
that.

'It
was my mate who ran it into the wall. He'd jiggered the brake. I just happened
to be standing up there when the consequences of his error became manifest.'

'I
like your way of putting that,' said the Chief. 'You'll turn up at the house
with just the right amount of coal dust and muck on you, just the right engine
smell.'

'It's
customary for engine men to have a wash when they've finished a turn, sir.'

'Yes,
well don't be too thorough about it. I've a driver all fixed up for you,' said
the Chief. 'He's just the man for the job.'

'Why?
Is he the man who drove the engine that Blackburn fired?'

'No,
that bloke's out of the picture - taken super-annuation, retired last month. I
have in mind a bloke called Tommy Nugent.'

But
he would say no more about this Nugent apart from the fact that he knew him
through the North Eastern Railway Rifleman's League, which the Chief
practically ran. Blackburn had also been in the League, and both the Chief and
Nugent, it seemed, had said the odd word to him at inter-regional shooting
matches.

'Will
Nugent be staying at the house too?'

'Could
do,' said the Chief. 'You might be glad of a mate ... Some pretty queer types
in this house, apparently.'

'They've
all been questioned, I assume. Statements have been taken.'

'They
have, lad.'

'Answers
not satisfactory?'

'They
en't
,' said the Chief.

The
Chief was grinning at me. I was growing anxious, and he liked that.

'Do
you have the case papers to hand, sir?'

But
I somehow knew he wouldn't have. Clerking was no part of real police work, at
least not to the Chief's mind.

'Well
now, there's been a mix-up over that,' he said. 'They were meant to've been
sent but they've not come. The earliest I can get them now is Monday morning,
but it'll do you good to go in there blind. You'll bring a fresh pair of eyes
to it all.'

'I
think that's what's called a mixed metaphor,' I said, and I left off the 'sir',
which I would generally add, as an insurance policy, when talking to the
Chief.'... Or maybe not,' I said, seeing the way he was eyeing me.

'When
do you start in that fucking solicitor's office?' he said.

'It's
not decided yet, if you recall... sir.'

'It's
already rubbing off on you.'

The
Chief took a pull on his beer. More was coming, I knew.

'Bloody
infected,
you are.'

Was
this Scarborough job his way of penalising me for leaving the force? Of course
it was. The Chief was down on all lawyers. In court, they had a habit of asking
him, 'And what accounts for the injuries sustained by the accused in your custody,
Chief Inspector Weatherill?'

I
asked, 'Was Blackburn married?'

'He
was not,' said the Chief, 'but he was engaged - had been for ages.'

'Might
be an idea to talk to her.'

'I
think the Leeds blokes have had a word. She's a bit flighty, moved about a lot,
very different from Blackburn.'

'What
was
he
like?'

'Grave
bloke,' said the Chief. 'Quiet. Bit of a lone wolf. . .

Big
Catholic, as a matter of fact.'

I
tried to figure him in my mind: a big, quiet, dark bloke. But the picture that
came was of a big, quiet, dark Catholic
church
I'd seen
hard by a railway line in Leeds. St Anne's, I believed it was called.

'Tell
you something else about him,' said the Chief. 'He was a bloody good shot.'

I
bought another pint, and the Chief climbed onto the stage and made a speech.
Well, it was more a reading of notices. The office was doing creditably well.
More crimes solved than last year. A collection would shortly be taken for the
North Eastern Railway super-annuation fund. The Riflemen's League was always
looking out for new members, ditto the York Territorials. A fellow ought to be
able to fire a rifle - he never knew when it might not come in. Vote of thanks
to the landlord of the Beeswing, and that was that. The drinking was carried
on for another hour, and then we all piled on the last tram back to York.

I
sat next to Shillito, the other sergeant, and behind Flower and Whittaker.

'My
cousin's six foot seven,' Whittaker was saying.

'You
en't half a spinner,' said Flower.

'You
reckon
⁷
.'

'Don't
ask rhetorical questions.'

'Are
you bloody well accusing me of asking rhetorical questions?' Whittaker asked
Flower.

'There,
you've just asked another,' said Flower. 'You don't even know what one bloody
is.'

Wright
was kipping on the front seat.

'Is
Wrighty okay?' I asked Shillito.

'He
has his troubles just now,' he said, which was a very

Wright-like
reply.

My
head reeled a little, and I felt it best to avoid looking through the windows,
for the street lamps would rush up rather fast. As the tram jolted and jerked
its way, I felt the motion to be unnatural. It was a heartless machine - no
fire burning in its innards. I closed my eyes, and then we were at the railway
station and piling off. The Chief was first down, and straight into the cab
shelter. I watched him amid all the rattling of horses' hooves and cab wheels,
and the loud, echoing goodbyes of all the blokes. The Chief was walking fast
towards a bloke coming out of the station. He looked behind and saw me as he
advanced on this bloke. The Chief collared him by calling out, A word...!' and
then a name I didn't catch. The two closed, and began talking, the Chief twice
more looking around in my direction, which was not characteristic of him,
since he didn't usually bother about other people. Was the Chief going down the
hill? He was too often juiced; too often out of the office; too careless of his
paperwork; too old. I eyed the bloke the Chief was talking to. The bloke
glanced my way once, and then looked down, rather shamefully I thought, as
though I was the subject under discussion. Who was he? I knew him from
somewhere.

I
walked away towards the bike rack, which was under the cab shelter. I was
taking the front lamp from the saddle bag, prior to fixing it on, when old man
Wright walked up.

He
said, 'I've a bottle of whisky in the office, if you fancy a nightcap,' and he
was trying to steady himself, as though he was on board a ship.

It
was such a strange turn-up that I immediately agreed, and re-stowed the lamp in
the saddle bag.

'What's
brought this on, Wrighty?' I asked, as we stepped through into the station.

He
made no reply, but just concentrated on walking straight.

In
the station, I saw few people. Instead, the trains were in charge - they had
the run of the place. There were not many, it being late, but the night-time
trains seem to make more noise and let off more steam than trains of the day.
The last Leeds train was making hard work of pulling away from the bay platform,
Number Six. We were on the main 'up' platform, where the police office stood,
and Wrighty was veering wide, approaching the white line of the platform edge.
Then, half running, he climbed the steps of the footbridge and crossed to the
main 'down'.

'Wrighty!'
I called out. 'What's going off?'

But
I was drowned out by the thundering of a great coal train coming up on the
'down' line. The loco was black, the
smoke
was black,
and every wagon thoroughly blackened. It was as if the English night itself had
been put on rails and carted north. I crossed the footbridge as the train ran
underneath, and I saw Wright on the very edge of the main 'down'.

'What's
up, Wrighty?' I shouted at him.

'Nowt,'
he said.

'Well
then!' I shouted, and Wright kept silence but the train did not. It seemed to
come on eternally, like the turning of a wheel, and Wright stood at the
platform edge facing the wagons as though expecting them to stop so that he
might climb aboard. He stood too close to them for my liking. I pulled at his
sleeve to draw him back away, at which he turned about, and I saw that his face
was quite different. He didn't look as if he was blubbing, but I knew that was what
the alteration signified. He said something, and I couldn't make it out for
the thundering of the wagons.

'Come
away from here, Wrighty!' I shouted.

But
he made no move, and once more addressed the flying coal wagons.

'Jane's
left me.'

'Eh?'

'She's
left me!'

I
could hardly credit it. Wrighty had been married to Jane for forty years. I
couldn't think what to say, but after a dozen more wagons or so, I shouted,
'Don't take on, Wrighty!'

'I
was always home to her directly!' Wright shouted at the train. 'I was never a
stop-out!'

'Your
missus is a decent sort!' I shouted back, 'You must be able to ...'