‘Please stand behind the yellow line. The next train at Platform One will not stop.’
He lumbered down the platform, making for the bridge.
‘Benedict, don’t be stupid: there’s nowhere to go.’ An eight-foot-high chain-link fence ran the length of Platform Two, blocking off both ends, the mesh woven through with drooping purple stalks of rosebay willowherb and the grasping claws of coiled brambles.
The train tracks pinged and sang, sounding like far-off laser blasters.
She followed him up the stairs. ‘All you’re doing is making things more difficult for yourself.’
Onto the bridge. Metal bars lined both sides, arching above their heads to join together, like a bird cage. A broken gate halfway along, hanging open.
‘Come on, Benedict, don’t be a dick.’ No point rushing now: he was barely limping along. A proper low-speed chase. ‘It’s over.’
‘Please stand behind the yellow line. The next train at Platform One will not stop.’
‘Mr Scobie’s happy to turn a blind eye, this time. We can get it sorted and you can stay out of prison.’
Benedict hobbled down the stairs on the other side, lurching out onto Platform Two, which would’ve been cloaked in darkness if not for the leftover, greasy yellow glow from the station across the tracks. Weeds snaked their way out through cracks in the concrete surface; small heaps of crisp packets, crumpled beer tins, empty Buckfast bottles, and used condoms sprawled against the metal control box.
The laser blasters got louder.
‘I never told anyone!’ He stumbled to a halt, halfway down the abandoned platform. Trapped.
Reason wasn’t working, maybe she’d get on better humouring him, instead?
So Lucy nodded, walking out after Benedict. ‘I know. You did well. They’re very pleased with you.’
‘They are?’
‘Definitely.’ The low grumbling roar of a big diesel engine joined the twangs and peeeeoows. ‘In fact, They’re so pleased with you They want you to come with me, so you can get your reward.’
A smile blossomed on his bruised face, then faded. ‘You’re lying, aren’t you? They want you to kill me because I failed. We killed Liam Hay, but I got caught. I wasn’t supposed to get caught! I can do better this time, I promise!’
‘No, honestly, Benedict, it’s OK. They don’t care about that, because you didn’t tell anyone. You passed the test!’
His head snapped to the side and back again.
The front end of a huge shed-like engine rumbled into view — flat-faced, with a slightly peaked roof, painted in grubby shades of red and rust-brown, ‘WHISKYFREIGHT’ stencilled in yellow down the louvred side. Hauling the first of what was probably a long line of unmarked wagons behind it.
He tensed, shuffling closer to the platform edge.
The train might not have been going full pelt, but it was still moving at a fair click — thirty, maybe forty miles an hour?
Lucy raised her hands. ‘Come on, Benedict: you passed. That’s great, right?’
He moved again. Licking his split and swollen lips. Knees bent.
The engine passed the signals a hundred yards from the end of the platform, bearing down on them fast.
‘Don’t!’ She closed the gap, blocking his way with an outstretched arm. ‘You can’t jump the gap; you won’t make it. This isn’t the movies, you can’t—’
‘I’m not.’ And he shoved her. Hard. Sending her sailing over the edge to crash down on the gravel below: tumbling backwards, limbs flailing, then sprawling to a halt with a sickening jolt, stretched across the two sets of tracks, right in front of the train.
24
Lucy’s head bounced off the metal rail with a ringing clatter, hard enough to make her teeth throb. One arm stretched out above her head, draped over the vibrating metal as the train growled towards her like a huge angry animal. ‘AAAAAAARGH!’
She jerked sideways, rolling onto the filthy gravel, arms and legs curled up against her chest as the stench of hot diesel washed over her. The air greasy and acrid in her mouth, burning its way into her lungs as the train wheels yelled their song into the rail, inches from her head, the warm foetid wind tugging at her hair.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
She rolled again, flinching away as the freight trucks lumbered past.
Then thump: her back hit the other set of tracks. Finally, out of harm’s way.
Lucy scrambled across them to the platform and pulled herself upright. Stood there, staring, as the train rumbled by, breath heaving in her lungs, head pounding, full of burning glass. Then turned. ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU...’ But there was no sign of Benedict Strachan on the platform. ‘WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?’
He wasn’t on the footbridge.
‘YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU COULD’VE KILLED ME!’
Truck after truck after truck after truck rattled past.
‘I HOPE THEY SEND YOUR ARSE BACK TO PRISON WHERE IT BELONGS!’
By the time Lucy had limped her way across the road — one hand clutching the back of her head — her bright-pink Bedford Rascal was the only vehicle in the car park. Benedict Strachan’s mum had disappeared, too. Maybe she’d given him a lift? Or maybe she’d just sodded off. Either way, Nichola Strachan was in for a not-so-friendly visit.
To hell with playing nice and doing Benedict favours, it was time to get the bastard picked up and thrown in jail. No more Miss Nice Girl.
Lucy pulled out her phone.
Blinked at it.
Perfect. That was just... ‘BASTARD!’
The screen looked as if someone had taken a hammer to it, a spider’s web of cracks radiating out from a big round impact crater. Wouldn’t turn on, either, just sat there in her hand like a sodding paperweight.
A voice, right behind her: ‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh?’
Lucy dropped her phone and whirled around.
Man. Dark-grey suit. Short dark-blond hair. The dick from Professional Standards, getting out of one of O Division’s manky pool cars.
Perfect.
Because that just rounded off the whole day, didn’t it?
She stormed towards him, flinging a finger at the train station. ‘WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU? I COULD’VE DIED!’
‘Are you all right, DS McVeigh, only you seem a little... stressed.’
‘STRESSED?’ Her whole face felt as if someone was crushing it in a vice, jaw clenched, eyes bulging. ‘Why didn’t you stop him?’
‘Stop who? I only just got here.’ Holding his hand out for shaking. ‘It’s Charlie, by the way. Hope you don’t mind me popping past, but your DC told me where to find you. Thought we could have that chat you’ve been avoiding. And, as we’re both off duty, it won’t interfere with you catching your serial killer.’ Big bland smile. ‘Everyone wins.’
She slapped his hand away. ‘Give me your phone.’
‘My phone?’ He frowned, leaning sideways to peer at her head. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Only I think you’re bleeding.’
Idiot.
Lucy grabbed her shattered mobile off the tarmac. ‘Mine’s broken; I need to call this in.’
‘Ah, my phone.’ He dipped into his pocket. ‘Won’t do you any good, though. Battery’s flat.’
Wonderful. Better and better.
‘Thanks.’ She unlocked the driver’s door. ‘You’ve been a great help.’