'No,' I said.
'Make believe for a minute that our job is just the policing of this railway station. Now, there are fourteen platforms and it is the biggest railway station in the country. It is also the busiest. Besides the engines of the North Eastern, it receives those of six other companies, and if our duties as an office were just confined to crimes committed within the station we would be over our ears in work…'
Ash was falling from the cigar on to the Chief's open coat, on to the suit beneath. He paid it no mind. The suit wasn't up to much, but he wore gentleman's boots. He turned at the mantelpiece – a giant of a man really, and case hardened.
'… The next thing to imagine,' the Chief continued, 'is that we are responsible solely for the railway matters carried on within York as a city. York is the administrative centre of the Company, it's also the geographical centre; the Company is the biggest employer of its men by far, and the city has its racecourse, its market, and is a holiday ground in its own right. Shall I name you one thing in York that's not to do with the railways?'
'Go on then,' I said.
'Go on then?' he said. '"Go on then, sir", you mean.'
'Go on then, sir.'
'Well I can't,' he said quietly, 'which just proves my point.'
'What about York Minster, sir?' I said, but he ignored me, saying: 'York alone would stretch us to the very limit and beyond, but it's not just the station, and it's not just York. You see, lad, in theory we cover about a third of the Company territory but in practice, should any affair begin on our part or finish up in it, then that's very likely to be ours as well. The fact is, we look to the whole of the North Eastern railway for our work, and this is the biggest railway in the country in geographical extent and it's the biggest carrier of goods and people…' He pitched his cigar into the cold grate, and began moving his arms. '… Berwick to the north, Hull to the fucking east, Carlisle to the west, Sheffield to the south. Five thousand route miles of track, seventeen docks; sixty-eight million passengers carried in the last year alone…' 'There's one more thing I think we should be looking into,' I said. 'Oh, for crying out loud,' said the Chief. 'Richard Mariner. He was night porter at the Station Hotel here, and he committed suicide.' 'How do you know about that?' he said sharply. 'It was on the front page of the Yorkshire Evening Press, sir. He was a railway employee – so was one of the Cameron brothers and I'm wondering whether what happened to them was to do with the matter that I'm investigating.' 'But we don't know what you're investigating,' said the Chief. 'That's why you're bloody investigating it.' 'The Camerons were shot near the goods yard…' 'Outside it,' he said, 'and don't you forget.' 'Two bits of business in the file that you gave me were carried on in the goods yard. Richard Mariner worked at the hotel, where another of the jobs was done.' The Chief said nothing. 'Can I go to the hotel, and ask questions about Mariner?' 'I'll do it,' he said, very quickly and surprisingly as he adjusted his coat. He was striding towards the outer door of the Police Office now. 'Come on,' he said, 'time you were out of here – bring those papers.' On Platform Four, I was saying good morning to the Chief under the finger-pointing sign reading To the Hotel' as a short train pulled away alongside us. There was a shout, and a bloke came running from the ticket gate, hailing the train. Somebody in a carriage opened a door for the bloke, and the bloke was up on the footboard and in. The Chief turned to me: 'Offence, is that,' he said sharply. 'I know, sir,' I said. 'It contravenes a railway by-law but I can't quite remember the number.' 'By-law ten, section (a),' said the Chief. Well, he knew that, and he'd come up with the goods yard pass as requested. Maybe he wasn't completely barmy, after all, I thought as I walked off with the Police Gazettes wrapped in brown paper under my arm.
Chapter Eleven
It turned out the sunniest day for weeks.
To my right, as I made my way from the station into the city centre, battalions of clerks flowed into the new North Eastern Company head office, the company badges glinting gold on its balconies. It was said the North Eastern was six months in arrears with its accounts, which no doubt explained the great rush. I walked across Lendal Bridge, freezing cold in my bad suit in the golden light. Nobody stopped for this moment of sun. On the south side of the river, Rowntree's factory was making its cocoa smell, which somehow made you want to pay a call of nature. The river barges fitted underneath the bridge but the smoke they put out didn't, and clouds came up from either side as two farmers' carts rolled over the top. These were followed by a hearse, and I watched the horse – a fast trotter – bringing its glass box with a coffin inside, the sight a warning to all.
Scurrying down the stone steps on the south side, I thought of the dead Camerons, and how they'd had all the energy needed to commit a felony just days before. I took a little turn through the Museum Gardens, past the peacocks, the ladies in white with baby carriages. I bought a sausage in bread and a billy full of coffee from the barrow parked near the Abbey ruin and sat down at a bench with the bundle of Police Gazettes given me by the Chief.