“But it’s also a closed system filled with dead ends and unrealised plans, and that makes it fascinating. All the stations that were excavated and never opened, the platforms that were used to hide art masterpieces in the war, follies like the theatre train that only ran in one direction. And of course there’s a lot more underground than just the tube network. I heard tell of a huge shelter beneath Clapham where the authorities chose to leave all the Windrush passengers.” The Empire Windrush had docked in June 1948, carrying nearly five hundred West Indian immigrants, ready to start new lives in the UK. Their arrival sparked a national debate about identity, and exposed deep prejudices. “Supposedly, the families were fed up with being forced to live in the shelter, and came aboveground to make Brixton the strong ethnic enclave it is today. You can’t hide people away; they find ways to blossom.”
“You know your trouble, Arthur?” said May. “You’re a hopeless romantic. You see a bit of old tunnel and imagine it’s a secret passage to another world. Nothing’s ever straightforward with you. It always has to have a hidden meaning. You have too much imagination. You don’t believe in filling out a tax form, but you believe in ghosts.”
“Of course. What about all the lives lost and changed below-ground?” Bryant’s rising passion changed the colour of his nose in the cold air. “I honestly believe that the rules are different down there. The suicides, the crash victims, the missed liaisons, the romances and betrayals, the lovers parting or rushing to meet each other. Don’t you think something of them has been left behind within those curving tiled walls?”
“The only things they leave behind are bits of dead skin and the odd newspaper,” said May. “You know how many deaths there are on the underground every year?”
Bryant peered out from beneath the ridiculous brim of his hat. “I’ve no idea.”
“Well, neither do I, but I bet it’s a lot, and no reasons ever come to light about why these things happen, they just happen and that’s all there is to it. Now, you’ve had me standing here in the freezing rain for ages – let’s head back to the tube.”
“The station guards I went to see might be able to help us.” Bryant clattered his stick against the railings like a schoolboy as they walked. “They can pull up camera footage of the entrance hall, the escalators and the platform, and form a sort of a visual mosaic that shows the boy’s movements.”
“Fine, give me your contact there and I’ll call them now, get them ready for our arrival.”
“This lad Matthew, he’s not been missing for very long.” Bryant pushed up his hat and fixed his partner with an aqueous blue eye. “He’ll turn up at a friend’s flat with a flaming hangover. We have to concentrate on closing up the Taylor case.”
“Giles Kershaw isn’t prepared to write the woman’s death off as misadventure. He’s convinced she was pushed.”
“He has no hard evidence for that.”
“Well, it must have been a complete stranger, because it’s not someone from her past. Taylor was ostracized by her family because of the pregnancy, but was on good terms with the father. She overcame the problems caused by her breakdown. Everyone at work liked her. There’s no-one else, Arthur. All we can do is keep on tracking witnesses.”
“Gloria Taylor couldn’t see her attacker, but the killer was also denied the satisfaction of eye contact with his victim. It was the act of an angry coward who simply wanted to maim someone.”
“I imagine it’s a bit too mundane for you,” said May. “Not weird enough, a woman falling down some stairs. The sticker on her back was the only mark of interest. You were hoping it was a sign that she belonged to some kind of secret society.”
Bryant pursed his lips, annoyed. “No,” he said, “I was hoping it was a sign that her killer does.” He gave his partner an affectionate pat on the back. “Come on, a quick cup of tea first, then we’ll see if we can find your student. You’re right, of course. We should concentrate on clearing up one mystery at a time. But the missing boy and the book of ghosts, they’re – well, suggestive.”
May could not resist asking. “Of what?”
“Oh, of an entirely different direction,” said Bryant, and he would not be further drawn.
∨ Off the Rails ∧
23
Last Train
“I didn’t think we’d get you back so soon,” said Anjam Dutta, the security expert at North One Watch, the King’s Cross Surveillance Centre. The luminescent monitors surrounding him showed long queues forming at the ticket windows where temporary barriers had been installed to help filter passengers. Dutta saw the detectives watching the screens.
“We’ve got a new office building just opened this month and two new blocks of student accommodation, totalling an extra 2,200 potential passengers, and they’re nearly all tube users. Usually it wouldn’t make a difference, but a couple of trade fairs just opened on Monday, one at the Excel Centre, the other at Earl’s Court, and there are a lot of visitors staying in the nearby hotels. We can regulate the number of people entering the station by reducing surface access, but we’ve already had to shut off the escalators several times this week because of passenger overload. The system works on the probability ratio of a certain number of travellers per day. It has trouble coping with unexpected demand.”
“I noticed you’re renovating some of the platform and tunnel walls as well,” remarked May. “How do you cope with that?”
“The equipment is stowed during tube working hours, but it means a couple of the monitors are disengaged. When you’ve only got four hours a night to find an electrical fault, it can take several days to sort out. What can I do for you gentlemen today? Is this about the escalator footage?”
“No, it’s a new problem that may be related. We’ve lost someone. He was supposed to catch the last southbound Piccadilly Line train last night. A student called Matthew Hillingdon.”
“That train would have passed through here at 12:24 A.M. The service was good last night. There’s a Northern Line train three minutes later and then that’s it until the next morning.”
“Ridiculous that we don’t have a twenty-four-hour system,” Bryant complained. “We know he texted his girlfriend from – what’s the nearest point to the trains that still has phone reception?”
“That would be the lower hall.”
“Below the escalators?”
“He’d get general coverage until about halfway down the final flight of stairs, but some networks have transmitter points on the Piccadilly,” Dutta answered. “He may have been able to transmit as far as the interchange, but not on the platform.”
“He texted her from King’s Cross at 12:20, a bit the worse for wear. He’d been out drinking with a mate and was heading for Russell Square tube.”
“That’s only a two-minute journey.”
“I know, but he never made it. I need to find out whether he got on the train. If he didn’t, perhaps we can see which exit he used from the station and collect witnesses from that point.”
“Okay, give us a couple of minutes. Everything’s digitally backed up 24/7, so it shouldn’t be hard to nail. Most of the cameras are recording constantly. As you pointed out, a couple of tunnels are being retiled, so they’re not fully covered, but we can pick up action on the platform overheads.”
The detectives seated themselves in the darkened room and studied the screens around them. “Look at all these passengers. Why do people have to move about so much?” asked Bryant irritably. “Everyone would get a lot more done if they just stayed in one place.”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” May replied. “You can’t sit still for a minute.” He looked back at the screens. “They’re like blood cells pulsing through an artery.”