Andrew Martin - Murder At Deviation Junction

'Small David's taken a fancy to him,' said Bowman. 'I don't know how far it works the other way. The boy's the one I feel sorry for in all this - apart from myself, of course,' he added, laughing.

'What does he work as?'

'Solicitor - only been at it a couple of years.'

'Up in Middlesbrough?'

'That's it.'

'I think I have the matter straight now,' I said, as we battered on through the drenching heather. 'The rudiments of it, anyway.'

'Well, Marriott's given you most of the tale. He has some kink in the brain that makes him always talk of it.'

But it seemed to me that Bowman's own kink was straightened out.

He was fairly skipping down the hill, in between falls. And he was not juiced, either.

'Marriott crowned Falconer,' said Bowman. 'And of course the whole Club knew it directly. It happened in the saloon, and half of them saw it. The body was put off the train at a spot near Marske, which is a little way north of Saltburn - it was just pitched into the snow at trackside, but they were lucky over the weather because the stuff was coming down fast, and Falconer would have been covered over in minutes. It bought them time,' Bowman continued, righting himself after another tumble. 'Well, you can imagine the discussion that went on in that carriage as it neared Middlesbrough - the heat of it. I think it would have been like a courtroom on wheels, with Marriott making out that it had been an accident, that he didn't deserve to swing for it or do thirty years, or whatever the turn-up might be if the police were called in . ..'

Something was moving along the hillside towards us; like a great brown cloud, only it came with a fast and dangerous rustling noise. It stopped twenty feet off, and the picture composed.

'Deer,' I said.

We both stopped and watched the herd for a second. Their eyes shone like new shilling pieces.

'Rum,' I said. 'They're looking at us as if there's something wrong with us.'

'That's because we're not firing on them,' said Bowman.

We crashed on.

'Richie stood by his father,' Bowman was saying. 'It was his notion of honour, and would be a lot of other people's too. Moody -'

'The old chimney sweep.'

'He was just scared. Scared and greedy - rather like me, in fact, but we'll come to that presently. Marriott struck a deal with him immediately. Moody would keep silence in return for gold.'

'But they did for him too - pushed him under a train.'

'I'm not sure about that,' said Bowman, stopping briefly on the hillside. 'I believe the whole business affected the old boy very badly . .. He might've jumped, you know.'

He stopped on the hill behind me, getting his breath. The heather was up to his waist; the cottage, our late prison, out of sight behind him.

'I thought I heard something,' he said.

There was a hidden roaring, as though of something under the ground.

'We're near the river,' I said, and we carried on.

'George Lee was different,' Bowman said, as we moved off again,' . . . would not be bought. At the same time, he couldn't quite bring himself to go to the coppers. There were days of . . . negotiations, I suppose you'd say, during which the Club carried on. They carried on using the saloon for a good week after the murder of Falconer; I believe. But I think that Lee eventually got wind of what had happened to Peters, and that decided him to go to the police. He made the mistake of stating his intention, though.'

'But before Lee could split,' I put in, 'Marriott sent Small David after him.'

'Small David and the horse,' said Bowman, 'Gilbert Sanderson's horse. The plan was Small David's, I believe. Marriott resisted it at first, but Small David worked his will. You know, I sometimes wonder whether he went to the lengths of removing his yellow socks, the better to impersonate Sanderson. That would have been a big sacrifice for him, I think. After it was done ... well, the club was finished, of course. Moody gave out that he was simply retiring from his business. Marriott wrote to the railway to explain that as a result of an extraordinary series of misfortunes, the special carriage would no longer be required.'

'Where did Marriott find Small David?'

'It seems that Small David has a brother,' said Bowman, still stumbling along in my wake. 'You might want a go at hazarding his profession -'

'Villain,' I said.

'Lately released from gaol. He killed four men in a street fight in Newcastle and Marriott got him off the capital charge - sentence of ten years' hard instead of the drop. He argued that it was an accident - the same accident four times over. Didn't know his own strength, you know the line of contention ...'

'Small David was paying Marriott a debt of honour then?'

'It would be nearer the mark, Jim,' Bowman gasped out, 'to say that Small David immediately started robbing Marriott blind. He has nearly all his money now, and the less money Marriott has, the less power he commands in the whole set-up - I miss my specs,' he ran on breathlessly. 'It's not so much being able to see that I miss as taking them off to rub on my sleeve.'

He was alongside me now and he was all in: sodden, and quite white in the face, for once.

'It's interesting about Small David's brother,' he panted. 'He lives in Middlesbrough, or somewhere that way. Small David sees him pretty regularly but he'll never speak of him - not that he speaks of anything very much, of course. The brother's a maniac from what I can gather. You might say that of Small David too, but he's quite careful. You can see that in the yellow socks.'

'How do you mean?'

'The way they're always kept pulled up.'

'Well, he wears garters. There's no mystery there.'

'But he tries to cover his traces. Takes a professional pride in -'

I held up my hand to silence him.

I was listening again to the rushing noise . . . and now distinct sounds of human voices came with it. We were within sight of what must have been the road: a smoother run of snow under the changing grey light.

'The river's down there,' I said, pointing forwards, 'and the railway line hard by.'

'...which won't be operating,' said Bowman, catching his breath. The roaring was coming closer in the mysterious dawn, and the voices made real words. Then there came the sound of cartwheels too. It was Small David in the driving seat and I could make out, even in that explosion of snow, that his revolver was in his hand as he whipped on the frozen nag. He was alongside us in a moment, making mock of the three-mile stride we'd just completed.

'First ye're a traitor to hum,' he said, addressing Bowman and pointing the gun towards me, 'and then ye're after selling us doon the river. Well, it's awfy cauld, so here's somethin' to warm yer Sassenach guts -'

The gun had swung back to Bowman, and the bullet was loosed at that moment, but in the same instant I fancied that I saw a flash of Marriott in the old-fashioned boxer pose, and he and his son fell on Small David as he fired. Marriott and Small David fell to scrapping in the cart; I was right by the horse's head, and that beast looked at me while the vehicle rocked behind him, as if to say, 'Look what I have to put up with.'

Marriott was now standing in the cart, steadying himself like a man riding a raft over rapids, even though the cart did not move. His face was a wall of blood held up proudly to the floating snow (for the stuff was coming down again). He held the revolver in his hand, and Small David rolled in the well of the cart at his feet.

Marriott did not use words. He was beyond that; he spoke with the gun. He waved it to mean that Bowman and I should climb up; then once again to get Small David back in the driving seat. Even though he'd lost hold of the revolver, the Scotsman was in a better way than the lawyer. In fact, he looked just as he had done before the set-to, with his indestructible country suit, and his great calves smoothly enclosed in the yellow stockings.