“Will do. And I’ll scrounge up a new one for you, in case you don’t get yours back.”
Hugo hung up and walked outside, glad for the cold night air that nipped away his tiredness, for a few seconds at least. He spotted a burgundy Vauxhall that sat alongside the line of taxis, like a sheepdog minding its herd, the nervous eyes of the cabbies looking back and forth between it and the station exit as they waited for fares.
Hugo smiled when the rear door of the car opened and DCI Upton stepped out. They shook hands.
“A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” Hugo said.
Upton smiled. “I always thought you Yanks were more into that jurisdictional crap than we are. At least that’s how the movies make it look.”
“And God knows they show nothing but the truth.”
Upton stood to one side and ushered Hugo into the comfort of the Vauxhall’s leather seats. This was a police car for ferrying the brass, he saw, not criminals headed for lockup. “Nice wheels. Mind if I take a nap?”
“We have an hour’s drive, so be my guest.” He nodded to the driver, who turned in his seat and smiled at Hugo.
“Nice to see you again, sir. PC Agarwal, from the church in Weston.” He turned back and flicked a switch, starting the overhead light on the car. “Sirens too, sir?”
“Not until someone gets in our way,” said Upton. He fastened his seat belt and turned to Hugo. “Now, what the hell is going on? And why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
Hugo told him about the note and his phone, and about Walton being on board the train.
“An eventful day,” Upton said. “Something doesn’t make sense, though.”
“Several things don’t make sense,” Hugo said wearily. “Which one are you talking about?”
“If Walton is some murderous lunatic, why didn’t he slit your throat while he had the chance? He left a bloody note, for heaven’s sake. A note.”
“I know, and I don’t get it either. Although, even for him, killing someone on a moving train would be rash. He’d certainly get caught. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t have a weapon? It’s not like he could have throttled me, I’d have woken up and beat the crap out of him.”
Upton smiled grimly. “True enough, but if we’re right about him, the guy’s killed several people in cold blood, and I can’t imagine it’s that hard to find something heavy or sharp enough to kill a sleeping man, even Hugo Marston.”
“I agree. Maybe he knows that killing cops, or in my case ex-cops, will turn this from a manhunt into something he’ll never get out of alive.”
“Cop killers tend not to fair well once they are caught, that’s true,” Upton said. “You think that’s it?”
Hugo just shook his head. He thought for a moment and asked, “What did you find on him?”
Upton opened a briefcase at his feet and pulled out a manila folder, then switched on the light above his head. “Most of it you know. Grew up in Weston, Hertfordshire, family religious, father—”
“Skip to the recent stuff if you don’t mind, I’m still hoping for a nap,” Hugo said with a gentle smile.
“OK, well, you remember how he took a year off, after winning his little bundle in the lottery? Turns out it wasn’t to catch some rest and relaxation, at least not in the traditional sense. He went a little bananas and spent eight months in a mental-health facility.”
“When was this?”
“Three years ago. No lasting damage, and he didn’t hurt anyone. Sound relevant?”
“Hell yes. Was he committed or did he seek treatment himself?”
“He was committed. Found wandering the lanes, covered in mud, and when some local tried to help him, he started yelling and screaming about God and the church. Then, according to my reports, he just went kind of silent and brooding. For months.”
“God and the church, eh?”
“The usual subject for lunatics,” Upton said. “That and aliens.”
“Anything else?” Hugo asked.
“Not really. He bought an apartment in London with his winnings, paid his taxes, then bought this place we’re going to in Walkern, and soon after sold the family home in Weston.”
“Are the two villages close?”
“Less than five miles, I’d say. Why?”
“Curious that he’d move from the family home to someplace close by. Any friends there? Is it a fancy new house?”
“No friends, or lady friends, that I know of. And his new house is pretty much the same as his old one, just in a different village.”
“Why would he do that?”
“No idea,” said Upton. “But before I forget, the vicar of the Weston Church confirmed that the grave you found wasn’t intended for one of her parishioners or dug by her gravedigger.”
“Must have been Walton again. What’s the deal with the vicar, by the way? A woman, and one with tattoos, must be pretty unusual in the countryside.”
Upton shrugged. “Not really. Not that close to London, and Weston is pretty much a suburb by now. Anyway, she was up front and doesn’t have any connection to these people. Interesting background though, since you’re wondering about her tattoos.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“All rather tragic, actually. She was married to some fellow a few years ago, down in Dorset. He was abusive and one day she got fed up and put a stop to it, with a shotgun.”
“Can’t blame her for that.”
“No, except some of the pellets went through an open doorway and killed their only son, he was a toddler, I think. She buried her husband in the back garden but when the police showed up she was cradling that little boy, catatonic. She did some time, not much, and when she got out she turned her life around and, as they say, gave herself to God.”
“Prison tattoos on a vicar? Somehow that tickles me. But I’m glad it’s not been a problem for her there.”
“She’s no-nonsense, takes care of people day or night, and gives interesting sermons.”
“I bet.” Hugo thought for a moment but had no immediate questions about Walton. He hoped the search of the man’s house would turn up more. “Anything on Pendrith?”
“Even more of a blank than Walton, I’m afraid. Single, devoted to his work, fought passionately for the causes he believed in.” Upton held up his hands in surrender. “Other than that, nothing.”
“What were those causes?”
“He doesn’t like Muslims much, I gather, not these days anyway.” Upton referred to his notes. “But a few years back it was more domestic stuff, like compensation for victims of crime, especially children. He’s toughened drunk-driving laws. Now he’s on his kick to get inmates out of prison before the system has to take care of them.”
“What do you think of that?”
“Me? Sounds like a bloody good idea to me, but apparently I’m in the minority. The idea comes across as soft on crime, and Pendrith was pilloried for it.”
“In Parliament or the press?”
“Both. Mostly his colleagues and opponents in government, because some of the liberal press support the idea. But coming across as soft on crime doesn’t get you far these days.”
“Try it in Texas,” Hugo said dryly.
Beside him, Upton looked at his watch and reached up to switch the reading light off. “By my reckoning, we have about thirty minutes.”
Hugo settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. “That’ll do for now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Upton woke him just as they passed through the village of Weston, offering him a cup of sweet, black coffee from a flask that the driver, Agarwal, kept on the front passenger seat. Hugo took the cup and held it in his hands while the shrouds of sleep slowly fell away, the aroma making his stomach feel at first queasy and then growl with hunger. He sipped at the liquid and relished the warmth and energy it gave him.