Andrew Martin - Murder At Deviation Junction

'Because he himself might have killed him.'

'If he had done, I don't think he'd bother to lie about it,' said Bowman, with glass raised. 'Small David's a man of mixed character morally, in that, if you get to know him at all, he's quite honest about the murders he's done. Besides, Marriott was his source of income.'

'But he's had all of Marriott's bread. This might just have been the right time to do him.'

Bowman shook his head.

'I think the matter is concluded as far as Small David is concerned. He's done his job and had his wages.'

Bowman then told me a little more about Marriott's decline.

He'd never been any great shakes as a brief. He'd started in London chambers, but left after a row and moved to the North for a quiet life. His office in Middlesbrough he shared with Richie, but it was no place for a barrister. There wasn't even an Assize Court in the town. Instead, he would appear at the Quarter Sessions doing small, something-or-nothing pleadings. He struck everyone as a queer sort: a snob, and nervous as a cat - flashing into rage at nothing - but always beautifully turned out.

'And what about the boy?' I asked. 'What's become of Richie, do you reckon?'

Bowman shrugged.

'He might still win through to France. Small David won't stop him - quite the contrary. He likes the kid .. . Would you stop him making away after all he's been through?'

And it was that particular question that put the crimp in.

Bowman turned to gaze through the window, playing with his wine glass, and seeing nothing. It was a sad do that his eyes, given the chance of acting without the aid of glasses, were not able to rise to the challenge. He saw me eyeing him, and brushed his fingers along his funny nose. He sighed, for the first time in a while.

After an interval of silence, another question came to me: 'Do you know Small David's name?'

'Surname's Briggs,' said Bowman. 'I know that much.'

The other diners left the dining car; the train rattled on through silent, white-dusted stations, most crammed with empty baggage wagons, but that's how it always is on a night train: a feeling of excitement followed in short order by one of loneliness.

'Do you know what that place is called?' he said. 'The hill on which the deer house stands, I mean?'

'They don't run to place-names up there, do they?'

'Fairy Hillocks,' said Bowman.

'It is wrongly named.'

'But that's what you put on a letter. I wrote to them the day after meeting you, and I suppose the letter's still there somewhere, lying abandoned with all the other papers.'

It was a piece of evidence - that's what he was getting at.

He sighed again.

The waiter, who had sat down at one of the empty tables, was watching us. He had not cleared the table alongside us, and a knife jingled against a glass there. The waiter would not interfere; he was banking on the noise driving us round the bend, and off to our beds.

'I'm glad of my time there in a way,' said Bowman. 'It's put me to rights in a number of ways.'

If he wanted me to ask what sorts of ways, I would not do so, for I was trying to compose my own thoughts.

'I find I have a taste again for writing,' said Bowman, 'and I mean the proper stuff, or at least the longer stuff. I might go back to my novel, or try my hand at another.'

Silence except for the glass and the knife.

'It was an African adventure,' said Bowman. 'Rather in the Rider Haggard line.'

Another pause.

'It came like winking - I'm sure I'll be able to place it if I give another push.'

'Have you been to Africa?' I said

'Not literally ,' said Bowman, turning to the window once Again. He rubbed his eyes, as if trying to start them working. 'One place I have been is Scotland, so perhaps I'll get up a Highland story.'

The waiter was approaching, having given up on the knife and the glass.

'An advantage of novel-writing,' said Bowman, 'is that it can be carried on anywhere - in any circumstances, I mean.'

'I must write up a report,' I began, 'and of course -'

The waiter was presenting the bill to Bowman, who squinted at it for a while.

'I'll stand you this,' he said, taking out his pocket book.

'I won't hear of it,' I said. 'How much?'

'The total is one pound nineteen shillings.'

I took out my pocket book with a feeling of fear. But before I put my hand into it, the waiter had been paid by Bowman and had left - which queered things still further between my companion and me.

'You were saying about your report?' said Bowman.

I sat back.

'Small David cannot be on this train, can he?'

Bowman frowned. I did not wait for his answer, but stood up, saying, 'I mean to go and take a look.'

'But you have no ticket, Jim. Let me buy you a sleeping berth.'

Evidently, Bowman had gone north with plenty of gold about him, which was only sensible in the circumstances.

'The warrant card will just have to serve,' I said. 'You turn in now.'

I stood up. Bowman did the same, and we shook hands.

'You must make out your report, Jim,' he said. 'I will answer for anything I've done wrong, which is a good deal, I know.'

I almost walked to York, considering that I was back and forth along the dark corridors of that train many times before arrival. Small David was not aboard, as far as I could tell with most of the compartment blinds drawn down. He could not have been - he'd have had to have ridden the slow plough with us in order to make the connection for Inverness at Helmsdale.

Chapter Thirty-two

I stepped down at York feeling light as a feather from want of sleep. I was one of only four to climb down there. It was six o'clock, and the station was coming to life in a series of crashes, and in the barking of the exhaust on the first passenger train of the day for Hull, which was pulling away from Platform Thirteen. I stood on Platform Four. A cold wind was sweeping along under the roof, and I could not contemplate removing my hands from my coat pocket.

I walked towards the door of the police office. It ought to be open by now. The Chief was often the first man in, filling the place with the sour smell of his cigar smoke as he read the night's telegrams and the first of the post. But it was locked, and a notice was pasted to the door glass: 'Monday 20 December. Closed. Police training day. Passengers seeking urgent assistance please find Stationmaster's Office by the booking hall.'

I had forgotten this was a training day.

In fact, training days were a species of holiday and generally ended in the bar of the Railway Institute. There were sometimes physical jerks directed by the Chief, sometimes lectures on dry subjects such as 'effecting arrest' or 'railway trespass'. The Chief was required to lay them on, but he didn't really hold with them, and wouldn't mind if you missed one, providing the cause was anything other than bone idleness.

I looked at the notice again. It annoyed me that anything as normal as a training day should be allowed to go on after all that I'd been through. Still, at least I couldn't be stood down on a training day.

I walked on. It was too early to go back to Thorpe-on-Ouse. I'd only wake the wife and Harry, and the boy needed his sleep. I picked up a Yorkshire Post at the bookstall and the fat man who ran it said, 'First one away today, mate.'

On the front page, I read 'Leap from an Omnibus' and 'Hull Soldier's Bad Behaviour'. Nothing had happened, but the paper had to come out all the same.

I walked out of the station, and saw that the snow had gone, leaving only the ancient city of York and a little rain. I went into town, and breakfasted at the Working Men's Cafe by the river at King's Staith. It was the cheapest breakfast going: fried egg, two rashers, tea or coffee and bread and butter all in for a bob. All of yesterday's Yorkshire papers were lying about on the tables, and it turned out that nothing had happened yesterday either, except that the snow had been expected to stop, which it obviously had done. It would apparently be returning, however.