Edward Marston - Blood on the line

‘Yes, Inspector,’ murmured the other.

‘I fancy that you’re in possession of information that will help in the search for those who murdered your colleagues. To hold it back would be a crime in itself.’

‘I know.’

‘Then you should get it off your chest.’

Marner needed a couple of minutes to compose his thoughts and to confront the horror of what had occurred. Colbeck let him have another sip of beer. Clearing his throat, Marner was about to confess when he started to weep again. Colbeck put a consoling hand on his shoulder and prompted him.

‘You didn’t think you were doing anything wrong, did you?’

‘No, Inspector,’ replied Marner.

‘Was any money involved?’

‘He offered me five pounds.’

‘Are you talking about Oxley?’

‘Yes,’ said Marner. ‘At first I refused, but five pounds is a lot of money to a man like me.’

‘And me,’ Leeming interjected. ‘What did you do to earn it?’

‘It seemed like a simple favour. All that I had to do was to tell the prisoner’s wife what train he’d be on and she’d give me five pounds. Oxley said she’d be there to wave him off.’

‘Instead of which,’ said Colbeck, ‘she caught the same train and helped him to escape.’

‘I wasn’t to know that,’ bleated Marner. ‘His wife was so pleased when I spoke to her. I felt sorry for her. I could see that she was carrying her husband’s child.’

‘She played on your emotions, Constable. To begin with, I doubt very much if she was his wife. I’m certain they cohabit but theirs is not a union blessed in the sight of God. As for being pregnant, that was another lie. What woman in that condition can run to catch a train then help to commit a murder?’

‘You were tricked,’ said Leeming with disgust. ‘You betrayed your friends. Because you took those five pounds, two policemen are going to their grave.’

Marner was in despair. ‘You think I don’t realise that, Sergeant? Ever since I heard the news, I’ve been in torment. What I did was terrible. If I had a gun, I swear to God that I’d have used it on myself by now.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘I feel like a murderer.’

‘Stop thinking about yourself,’ said Colbeck, ‘and try to help us instead. You met this so-called wife and had the opportunity to take her measure. We need you to remember every single thing about her that you can. Each detail is important.’ Marner looked up at him through bleary eyes. ‘What was your first impression of her?’

‘She was a… very appealing young lady.’

‘At what age would you put her?’

‘I think she was not much more than twenty,’ said Marner.

‘What about her build, height and colouring?’

‘She was slim, of medium height and dark-haired.’

‘Can you recall any significant feature about her?’

‘Yes,’ replied Marner, thinking about his encounter. ‘I’ll wager that she came from Manchester. She tried to hide her accent but I could hear it nevertheless. I lived in the city for a couple of years and you get to know the sound of a Manchester voice. That’s where Mrs Oxley — or whatever her real name is — hailed from. I’d stake every penny I have on it.’

To avoid being seen together, they travelled north to Manchester next morning in separate railway carriages. It gave each of them time to reflect on what had happened. For his part, Oxley was still excited. Twenty-four hours earlier, he’d been in custody and destined for certain imprisonment or — if his criminal record was unveiled — even a death sentence. Only a daring plan had rescued him. The fact that two policemen had died in the process did not disturb him in the slightest. They were expendable in his view. What stuck in his mind was the extraordinary cunning and audacity shown by Irene. It had drawn him closer than ever to her. None of his other mistresses — and there had been several over the years — would have had the nerve to devise and carry through such a plan. Irene Adnam was indeed exceptional. Oxley resolved that she would continue to pose as his wife for a long while yet.

Ensconced in the corner of another carriage, Irene ignored the lascivious glances she was attracting from the elderly man opposite her and tried to confront the enormity of what she had done. She had killed one man and helped to throw another to a hideous death in the tunnel. Had he known the truth about her, the passenger would not be running such covetous eyes over her. Irene was still shaken. A night in Oxley’s arms had stilled her fears but they’d returned now that she was alone. Thieving was a way of life for her. It left her conscience untroubled. Murder, however, was a very different matter. Impelled to shoot one man out of love for another, she was unable to dismiss it from her mind. What if her victim had been married and had children? What kind of misery had she inflicted on them? The same could be asked of the policeman she’d struck with her pistol until he lost consciousness. His family would be suffering dreadfully. Friends of both men would be bereft. Such thoughts made her feel almost dizzy with remorse.

Irene tried to tell herself that it had all been a means to an end. She was infatuated with Oxley. The idea of his being locked away for several years was unbearable. Whatever extreme steps it took, he had to be saved from imprisonment. He was amazed at her bravery and overcome with gratitude. In the course of their frantic lovemaking, he’d even talked of marriage for the first time. If she did become his wife in reality as well as in name, she would have paid a high price for it, but she convinced herself that it would have been worthwhile. Two dead Wolverhampton policemen would fade into the past; Jeremy Oxley was her future.

As the train chugged into Manchester station, she got ready to leave. By the time she alighted onto the platform, Oxley was well ahead of her. He bought a newspaper from the bookstall then went out through the exit. Irene followed him. By prior arrangement, they were well clear of the station before they met up.

‘What did you buy?’ she asked.

‘A copy of The Times,’ he said, opening the newspaper. ‘It’s reached Manchester already. I wanted to see what they had to say about us.’ He spotted a headline. ‘Here we are — P OLICEMEN M URDERED D URING E SCAPE B ID. We’re famous at last, Irene. I shall enjoy reading this.’ His laughter died instantly and his smile became a grimace. ‘I don’t like this,’ he admitted.

She was worried. ‘What is it, Jerry?’

‘We have a problem. According to this report, the detective in charge of the case is Inspector Colbeck of Scotland Yard. He and I have crossed swords before, though he wasn’t in the police force at the time. We have to be very careful, Irene.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Colbeck has a score to settle with me. He’s very determined. Once he picks up our scent, he’ll stay on our tail until he catches up with us. This is bad news, Irene,’ he said, folding up the newspaper. ‘The last person in the world I want after me is Robert Colbeck.’

After spending the night in Wolverhampton, the two detectives began the day by walking to the railway station. The town was still in a state of shock after the turn of events. People were grim, silent and fearful. They moved about as if in a daze. Posters had already been put up at the station, offering a reward for information leading to the arrest of Jeremy Oxley. A brief description was given of him. Colbeck and Leeming interviewed the clerk in the booking office. He remembered the young woman who’d arrived late for a train the previous morning and said that he’d issued her with a single ticket to Birmingham. Since he saw so many passengers in the course of a day, he could give only the sketchiest details about her. Like all the employees at the station, he was very apprehensive. Murder on the LNWR was a very bad advertisement for the company. It would inevitably deter some passengers from travelling by rail.