Death on a Branch Line(83)

‘I don’t give a fuck what you think.’

‘I reckon he was canned.’

Woodcock turned and, still keeping the shooter on me, opened the cupboard from which it came. I had a clearer view of it this time, and saw small tools, paint pots, coils of wire, company manuals of various kinds and a shelf given over to bottles of spirits.

‘An innocent man’ll be dead not three hours from now,’ I said.

‘Innocent,’ said Woodcock. ‘Now that’s putting it a bit strong. Wasn’t friend Lambert a bit of a …’



‘What?’

He hesitated.

‘… Down in London, like. It is a crime, you know.’

Still keeping the gun levelled at me, he reached into the cupboard, and brought down one of the spirit bottles. He pitched it across to me.

‘After you,’ he said.

I unscrewed the cap, and took a belt. It might have been whisky, might have been rum; I don’t touch spirits as a rule.

‘Here we are,’ said Woodcock, ‘two railway blokes who like a bit of a drink. If we can’t come to an understanding I don’t know what … Just put the bottle on the table, if that’s quite all right.’

I did so. There was no sound for a moment but the ticking of the clock, and the seething of the rain.

‘You want Lambert to be spared the noose, so you need to get a wire off sharpish – only the lines are down so you’re a bit stumped. I want you to leave me out of account when you come to write up this whole bloody business.’

‘You mean you’ll help me send a wire in return for immunity?’

‘You’ve got the drop on it just nicely.’

‘What about Hardy? He’s the guilty man, and you’ve sent him on his way.’

‘Where’s he going to go, you fucking bonehead?’

I looked again at the clock. The hands seemed to be making leaps. Ten after five.

‘Straight now,’ said Woodcock. ‘Do we have an agreement?’

‘If you put that shooter down,’ I said.

But Woodcock continued to eye me. He seemed to be weighing the matter.

‘I reckon you’re the type that keeps a promise,’ he said, ‘– a good little company man.’

He reached into the cupboard and pitched across one of the books, grinning and saying, ‘Here, cop hold.’

The title of the book was North Eastern Railway: Rules and Regulations for Traffic Department Staff.

‘Swear on that,’ said Woodcock, before turning away from me, and pointing the long gun at the ABC machine. He was aiming not at the two dials, but at the edge of the wooden base of the thing. He fired once, and I thought my eardrums had split; then he yanked at the lever under the handle, and took aim again at the other side of the base, saying, ‘You might want to stop your ears, mate.’

He shot again, and the wood of the counter and the wood of the base of the machine had split, but the ABC machine was now free. Woodcock had shot away the two screws that moored it to the counter.





Chapter Thirty-Three


We were crashing through the woods in the grey dawn, with the rain spilling down at irregular intervals from above, as if the tree canopies held so many broken pipes.

I carried the ABC machine – which was an armful in itself – and a storm lantern taken from the booking office. Woodcock held the battery for the ABC and two long loops of wire. We’d left Hardy’s rifle in the station, although I’d pocketed the cartridges.

It seemed that I really did have an agreement with Woodcock, and that he meant to stick to it. Who’d got the best of this deal? Woodcock was fairly cute, and I was pretty sure he had. For one thing, I ought by rights to have made the stipulation that he would turn King’s Evidence against Hardy. But I was not trained up in telegraphy; I knew that I would not be able to set up the ABC so that it worked in its new position. Accordingly, I had no bargaining power to speak of.

As we’d come out of the station, I’d not seen the wife in the yard (or Mervyn or Hardy), but I assumed that Lydia had taken the boy back to The Angel, and that Hardy had made off. He would be run in eventually, though, even if his woodcut had to appear in the Police Gazette every week for the next year. Woodcock was a little way ahead of me. Every time he pushed a branch aside, it sprang back and gave me a fresh soaking.

‘Why wouldn’t you send a wire for Sir George?’ I asked him.

‘Couldn’t be arsed,’ he called back. ‘My work stops when I book off – if not before.’

We were sweeping fast through knee-high gorse and bracken, keeping our heads low to avoid the black branches.

‘Who are you going to send to?’ called Woodcock.