Peril on the Royal Train (12 page)

‘That’s a monstrous allegation!’ snapped Weir.

‘Calm down, sir. This is not an attack on you.’

‘I speak for the company and I’ll defend it against malicious slander.’

Colbeck lifted his shoulders. ‘I’ve heard no slander,’ he said.

‘And none has been intended,’ said Rae with an emollient smile. ‘We do, however, have to face facts. The NBR and the Caledonian have been at each other’s throats for years. Apart from anything else, both of you have been fighting to take over the Edinburgh and Glasgow.’ Weir glowered at him. ‘Is that correct, sir?’

‘The NBR is always looking to expand,’ admitted the other.

‘But your methods of doing so are not always gentlemanly.’

‘I can see that you’re not a businessman, Inspector.’

Rae smiled. ‘It’s something for which I’m eternally grateful.’

Colbeck took little part in the conversation. He was content to sit there and watch Inspector Rae joust with the pompous general manager. It was not long before Weir’s expressionless face was animated, eyes flashing, hair tossing, lip curling and cheeks turning a bright shade of crimson. Colbeck learnt an immense amount about railways north of the border. While they were built predominantly with English capital, they were run almost exclusively by Scotsmen like Alastair Weir, though they tended to keep token Englishmen on their respective boards.

They also retained the services of tame members of parliament who could advance their interests at Westminster. As Colbeck knew, this was also standard practice in England. Railway companies were monumentally expensive to set up. Rather than risk the loss of their vast initial outlay, boards of directors made sure that they had sympathetic voices in the House of Commons to smooth the progress of any bill. Colbeck was well versed in the political infighting that took place in parliament over rival plans. What he’d not encountered to the same degree before was the naked aggression between railway companies. Weir described it as fair competition but it went well beyond that. Colbeck watched with admiration as Inspector Rae probed away until the general manager was virtually frothing at the mouth. When there was a lull in the storm, Colbeck stepped in.

‘Did you know that the driver of the train used to work for you?’ he asked.

‘No,’ grunted Weir, ‘I did not.’

‘If the NBR is the wonderful company you describe, why did Jock Laidlaw turn his back on it?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’

‘But you ought to care, sir. He’s not the first driver to defect to the Caledonian and he won’t be the last unless you divine the cause of the exodus.’

‘It’s not an exodus,’ snarled Weir. ‘Drivers leave for all sorts of reasons and not only from us. We employ men who used to work for the Caledonian. Why don’t you ask Mr Craig why they fled from his company?’

‘They’re the very people that interest me,’ said Colbeck. ‘They’d know about the way the Caledonian was run and be aware of the timetabling of its freight.’

Weir exploded. ‘Don’t
you
start hurling unfounded accusations at the NBR as well. I’ve had enough of that from Inspector Rae. I came in the hope of receiving an apology, yet all that I’ve got so far is a string of insults.’

‘They were not intentional,’ Rae told him.

‘Be that as it may,’ said Weir, hauling himself out of his seat. ‘I’ve stayed long enough. My time is money. This conversation is over.’ He snatched up his top hat and headed for the door. ‘Good day to you, gentlemen.’

Colbeck waited until he’d left the room before turning to his companion.

‘I thought you treated him with just the right amount of polite disrespect.’

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said Rae, ‘but I’ll pay for it. As soon as he gets back to his office, he’ll dictate a letter of complaint about me to the procurator fiscal. In the mood he’s in, he might even send one about you to Scotland Yard.’

‘Criticism never hurts me,’ said Colbeck, suavely. ‘I’ve had so much of it over the years that I’ve become inured to it. As a rule, it comes from people I’ve upset because they have something to hide.’

‘What do you think Mr Weir was hiding?’

‘He was trying to conceal his fear that you might, after all, be right. It’s not inconceivable that there
is
a connection between the NBR and the crash. Needless to say, the crime was in no way prompted by Mr Weir, but he can’t be certain that someone on his payroll didn’t take the law in their own hands. That’s what was behind all that righteous indignation,’ argued Colbeck. ‘A seed of fear has been sown. Mr Weir is terrified that one of us will find proof that the NBR is implicated, after all. If it is – and I know you incline to that view – it may well cost him his position.’

Victor Leeming was glad of an assignment that took him out of the hotel and relieved him of his discomfort in its sumptuousness. His task was to begin the search for Lackey Paterson. If the man had left the quarry, there was a strong possibility that he’d return to the city where he was born. At Colbeck’s suggestion, Leeming first sought the help of the police. While the rank of detective sergeant had real status in England, it did not impress his Scottish counterparts. They claimed to be the oldest police service in the world, having been set up almost thirty years before the Metropolitan Police came into being.

Before he had any actual assistance, Leeming was treated to a brief history of the Glasgow force and learnt that, over ten years earlier, it had merged with the Gorbals, Calton and Anderston Burgh Police to form a single unit comprising some three hundred and sixty officers. Four divisions existed. The men looked smart enough in their top hats and three-quarter-length dress coats with their standing collars and nine shiny buttons but, as in London, their numbers were wholly inadequate to police such a large and populous city. Having listened to the lecture with good grace, Leeming was rewarded with some advice about where he might start the search for Lackey Paterson. The inspector to whom he spoke also promised to spread the word among his officers that Paterson was wanted for questioning.

The task that confronted Leeming was disheartening. He was looking for a man he’d never seen before in a city he didn’t know at all. It was like searching for a particular grain of sand on a very large beach. What drove him on was the recurring image of Margaret Paterson, a pretty woman sullied by circumstance and destined for a life of drudgery. Touched by her plight, Leeming was determined to find the husband who’d beaten and abandoned her. The description he’d picked up of Paterson seemed to fit dozens of the men who walked past him in the street. What he’d been given at the police station was a list of haunts favoured by railwaymen. Many of the pubs – including the one already visited by Leeming – would be well known to Paterson. They’d be his natural habitat. Since the majority of them offered cheap accommodation, he might have taken refuge at one of the pubs.

Leeming had second thoughts about the advice. If Paterson had been involved in causing the train crash, he reasoned, would he seek out the company of railwaymen or would he go to ground elsewhere? The latter course of action seemed more likely. Instead of trailing around a sequence of pubs, therefore, Leeming decided to go back to the Gorbals as a first port of call. While he knew that Paterson had left his wife for good, he hoped that she – aware of his habits and inclinations – might give him more reliable guidance. There was another reason that drew him back to the tenement. He wanted to see her again.

It was the same as before. As he walked through the stink and squalor of the slums, his top hat and frock coat excited a lot of jeers from undernourished children and outright abuse from unemployed men idling on corners. The sense of destitution and hopelessness made Leeming feel ashamed to be staying at The Angel Hotel. There was nothing angelic about the Gorbals. It was closer to the seventh circle of hell and, as such, more familiar territory for him. Leeming’s career as a policeman had begun in uniform, pounding the beat in some of London’s most run-down and crime-ridden districts. The Gorbals seemed like a darker version of the rookeries of St Giles. When he located the house, it was some time before

Margaret Paterson came to the door. She was not pleased to see him and shrank back, pulling the baby against her chest and enfolding it in protective arms.

‘What’re ye after?’ she demanded, shrilly.

‘There’s no need to be alarmed, Mrs Paterson,’ he said, trying to calm her with a smile. ‘I simply need your help. We’ve been to the quarry where your husband used to work and he’s no longer there. We believe he may be back in Glasgow.’

‘Then ye can keep the devil awa’ from me.’

‘I don’t think he’d come back here. What we need is some help in finding him. Does he have any relatives in the city, people he’d go to if he needed somewhere to stay? What about his parents, for instance?’

‘They’re both dead.’

‘Does he have any brothers or sisters?’

‘Aye, but they’d turn him away as soon as look at him.’

‘Perhaps he has friends who’d offer him shelter.’

Her laugh was scornful. ‘Lackey was guid at making friends,’ she said, ‘but even better at losing them. Nobody would take him in. He’d be too much trouble.’

‘So where might he go?’

‘Why should I care?’

‘Please, Mrs Paterson,’ he said as she tried to turn away. ‘This is very important. I wouldn’t have come here otherwise. I know you must be angry at the way your husband treated you and I deplore what he did. But I still think you’re the one person who might be able to help. You know him better than anyone. Put yourself in his position. Where might he go?’

Her manner softened. Leeming’s plea was sincere and heartfelt. He’d not come to harass or threaten her. He simply wanted information.

‘There is one place …’ she murmured.

‘Yes?’

‘He spent a lot of time there in the ould days. Sometimes, he’d stay the night and go to work from there the next morning.’

‘Where is it, Mrs Paterson?’

‘It’s a pub called The Stag in Marigold Street,’ she said with asperity, ‘and I wish I could burn it to the ground. It was a gambling den. Lackey was there a’ the time. It’s where he lost his money and had us turned out o’ our home. We didnae always live heer, ye ken. We’d a proper hoose once. It was gambling that sent us down into this foul pit.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ve to go now, sir.’

‘Wait,’ he said, moved by the insight into her life and wanting to relieve her predicament in some way. ‘I’m sorry I had to bother you again but what you’ve told me is very helpful and deserves a reward.’ Fumbling in his pocket, he took out some coins and thrust them at her. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Paterson.’

Taking the money, she smiled for the first time and looked at him afresh. He was kind and generous. Her hostility melted into something closer to pleasure. As she studied his face, she wondered if she might earn more from him. Straightening her back and brushing her hair away from her forehead, she took a step closer to him.

‘If ye’ll gi’ me a moment to put the bairn down,’ she said, ‘I’ll invite ye in. It’s no’ a nice place but I’ll make up for tha’, sir, I promise.’

Leeming was shocked. During his time in uniform, he’d been offered favours by prostitutes many times and had found them easy to resist. This was different. Margaret Paterson was a respectable woman with none of the practised wiles of a streetwalker. Reduced to the situation she was in, however, she was desperate to make money by any means. Leeming felt embarrassed on her behalf.

Thrusting more money at her, he turned on his heel and marched away.

Work as a shepherd gave Jamie Farr ample time for reflection. While roaming the hills with his flock and his sheepdog, he was able both to do his job properly and reflect on his sudden change of fortune. He felt profoundly cheated. When he first spoke to the bearded railway policeman, he believed that he was in possession of information worthy of the advertised reward. In his ignorance, Farr hadn’t realised that there were several stages to go through before the money was his. Despite their combined efforts, he and Bella Drew had been unable to read the handbill in its entirety. The lack of education which had bonded them had also let them down at a critical moment. Farr regretted having given his evidence before he fully understood what would happen to it.

Something else troubled him. The policeman had given him no guarantees. He’d simply gobbled up what the shepherd had to say then disappeared with it. Farr had disliked the man on sight, partly because he was employed by a despicable railway company but mainly because he inspired no trust. There was something mean and guileful about him. Farr sensed that he could be tricked out of the reward that was due to him. While the policeman knew how to find him, the shepherd had no idea how to make contact with McTurk. How would he ever know what use had been made of his evidence? If the policeman exploited it for his own purposes, Farr would be none the wiser. The notion that he’d been robbed continued to gnaw at his brain with sharp teeth.

At least he knew the name. When he saw that they were still clearing the debris from the site, he asked some of the men about the big policeman with the black beard and was told that he was Superintendent Rory McTurk. From the way they talked about him, he gathered that McTurk wielded his power with full force. He was not a person to cross. Farr paid no heed to the advice. In order to get what he felt was due to him, he was prepared to take on anyone. His problem – and it made him simmer with frustration – was finding a way to go about it.

A bark from Angus alerted him but there was no trouble with the sheep. What the dog had warned him about was a visitor. When he saw who it was, Farr went gambolling down the hill to intercept her. Bella Drew was striding along with the sun gilding her hair and the wind blowing it into cobwebs of spun gold. While his master was away, Angus patrolled the margins of the flock.

‘What’re ye doing heer?’ asked Farr when he reached her.

‘I wanted to see ye, Jamie.’