“There were no trains expected until later in the day, so the ticket office was closed. We decided to keep an eye on all the suspects, see if they started spending more money than they should have had. Dolphin didn’t seem to have anything other than his wages, and then yours. Yes, we kept an eye on people for as long as that. The only one who splurged out was Briggs. We were moving in to pick him up when he disappeared to Spain. No extradition agreement, and by the time there was, the old sod was dead.”
“No idea who did it?”
“None. But someone with a clever brain masterminded it.”
“Is there any way my father could have known what was on the train?”
“On the face of it – no. But back up in Glasgow where they loaded up the train, some of the workers must have known what was on it, and the Post Office workers on the train certainly knew. Easy to leak the news.”
“I read a book about it by a local author,” said Fell. “He says it was as if some sort of ghost squad had performed the robbery and just melted away. No one saw any cars racing away from the station.”
“No one much around there except at train times,” said Rud-fern. “Not like in the cities, you know. In country places, the station’s often well outside the town, like in Buss. I read that book. Silly piece of reporting. Great gaps in it. We hauled in all known criminals from miles around. We have our snouts – informers – so we waited, sure that some whisper would come out of the underworld. Nothing. You know what I think?”
Maggie and Fell leaned forward. Mr. Rudfern’s daughter came in. “Are you finished yet?” she demanded. “Father needs his rest.”
“Go away,” said Mr. Rudfern. “Now!”
She went out, slamming the door behind her. “It’s terrible to be old and be at the mercy of your children,” said the ex-inspector, half to himself. “Where was I?”
“You were about to tell us what you thought,” said Maggie eagerly.
“Yes. Well, no one would listen to me. But it’s this. I think it was masterminded by someone with military training and brains. I think the men who committed the robbery or helped with the robbery were all amateurs. Take Tarry Joe – Joe Briggs – for instance. Reputation as being a hard worker. Previous conviction didn’t come to light until we started checking up on everyone. I was willing to bet that the rest, whoever they were, had never committed any crime before. I think, apart from Briggs, that they all went off to their homes and lived blameless lives until they felt it was safe. No one wanted to know what I thought, though. They all said that amateurs would have betrayed themselves by now.
I even went out to Spain, to Benidorm, to talk to Briggs. But his criminal associates must have tipped him off, because he had disappeared. He surfaced again, from all reports, after I had left. You’re not going to play amateur detective, are you?”
“I was just interested in getting all the facts for my book,” said Fell.
“I don’t want to depress you,” said Mr. Rudfern, “but that first book never sold much and who’s going to be interested in a second book?”
“I can try,” said Fell stubbornly.
“Let me give you a bit of advice. It’s no use raking over the past. Facts don’t come to the surface, but mud does. You could inadvertently hurt a lot of people. There were a lot of wild accusations flying around at the time.”
“I’ll let you know how we’re getting on,” said Fell.
“Don’t. I’m an old man now and don’t want to be bothered.” Mr. Rudfern picked up a small brass bell from the table beside him and rang it. The door opened promptly and his daughter appeared immediately, as if she had been waiting outside. “See them out,” said Mr. Rudfern.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. The interview was over.
¦
“What did you make of that?” exclaimed Maggie. “He was warning you off, wasn’t he?”
“He probably doesn’t want anyone finding out who did it when he couldn’t,” said Fell. “You know, I’ve been thinking. What about going round to the offices of the local paper? Maybe someone there can put us in touch with a reporter or someone who’s still alive who reported on the case?”
“Good idea.” Maggie started the car and they set off for the High Street, where the offices of the
After explaining what they wanted to a power-dressed receptionist with mandarin-long fingernails who looked as if she believed she was meant for better things, they were told to wait. Grey light shone into the reception area through a large plate-glass window. A newspaper performed an erratic ballet down the street outside and then, after a final entrechat, sailed up over the roofs and disappeared. They were seated side by side on a tweed sofa. In front of them was a low black coffee table, chipped and scarred. A cheese plant was slowly dying in one corner. There were framed front pages of the
“Excuse me,” said the receptionist, making them jump, so absorbed had both of them been in their own thoughts – Fell’s in worries about the money and Maggie’s in worries about Fell.
“The editor will see you now. Jessie will show you the way.” A shy thin girl had emerged from a side door and stood waiting.
They followed Jessie up a narrow flight of stairs, across the reporters’ room, to a frosted glass door which bore the legend. “T. J. Whittaker, Editor.”
Jessie opened the door and ushered them in. The editor rose to meet them. He was a red-faced, fleshy man with a beer gut hanging over baggy trousers. His striped shirt was open at the neck. He had beetling eyebrows under which his heavy face sagged down.
“Sit down,” he said. “So you’re writing a book on our train robbery. I was a reporter on that case. Dolphin, hey? That was the name of the signalman.”
“My father,” said Fell. “I only just discovered he was a suspect.”
“Why? I thought you would have grown up on stories of it.”
“No, he never mentioned it.”
“So what do you want to write a book about it for?”
Fell decided to take the plunge. “I am really trying to prove my father’s innocence. He was pulled in for questioning.”
“But he wasn’t charged,” said Mr. Whittaker.
“Still…I’ve been to see Inspector Rudfern.”
“Oh, really? I never found him much help at any time. Anyway, I’d better tell you what I know, seeing as it’s a quiet day. I was a reporter then and – ”
The door to his office burst unceremoniously open and a young reporter said, “We’ve got a murder, Mr. Whittaker.”
The editor stood up and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair.
“Where? Who?” he demanded.
“Down at the Railway Tavern. A knifing. Landlord says the chap was called Andy Briggs.”
? The Skeleton in the Closet ?
Four
FELL and Maggie made their way slowly out of the newspaper offices. When they were outside, Maggie said, “I’m glad he’s dead. But what’s worrying me is that whoever killed him might have something to do with the robbery and come looking for us.”
“Let’s just hope it was a drunken brawl,” said Fell. “I’m tired. Let’s go home and go to bed.”
And I wish that were an invitation, thought Maggie gloomily once again. They seemed to be moving deeper into a nightmare. If only they could get through it together, really together.
She drove them home. As she climbed the stairs to the bedroom, she heard the phone ring. “Could you answer that, Maggie?” called Fell. “I can’t take any more today.”
Maggie ran downstairs and picked up the phone. “Melissa here,” breathed the voice at the other end.
“I’ll get Fell,” said Maggie wearily.
“No, it’s about next Wednesday. I’ve invited Fell to dinner and I forgot to tell him to bring you. Are you
