‘Which way did he go?’ he asked.
The old man blinked. ‘He rode off towards the railway station.’
He was there. Keedy couldn’t see him and nobody on duty reported noticing the Irish fugitive but the sergeant nevertheless sensed that he was there. He began to work his way systematically around the place, going up and down each platform and looking into every room. There was no sign of Niall Quinn but that only meant that he was hiding somewhere. Keedy was about to widen his search by jumping down on the track when he saw Marmion trotting towards him with two uniformed constables.
‘He’s here somewhere, Joe,’ said Marmion.
‘I know that.’
‘He stole a bicycle and headed this way.’
‘If we spread out,’ said Keedy, ‘we can comb the whole area.’
The constables didn’t take kindly to the notion of getting down onto the track, especially as they could hear a train approaching. It came out of the gloom at a moderate pace and they could see that it was a goods train. Wagon after wagon clanked past in what seemed like an endless procession. Marmion watched them but Keedy’s eye was on the bridge between the platforms. A figure had suddenly appeared above them.
‘There he is!’ he yelled, pointing a finger.
They looked up in time to see Niall Quinn, clambering over the side of the bridge before dropping into a passing wagon. Keedy was furious.
‘We’ve lost the bastard!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As a rule, June Ingles didn’t get to see a morning newspaper. Her husband always bought one on his way to work, read it during his lunch break then discarded it before coming home. There’d been a radical change that day. Brian Ingles had not only bought three different newspapers, he kept reading their front pages at intervals as if he’d forgotten what news was being featured. When she caught him glancing at the headlines of one paper yet again, she was curious.
‘You must know that article off by heart now,’ she observed. ‘Why do you keep picking it up?’
‘I find it reassuring, June.’
‘Well, I don’t. I hate seeing Florrie’s name mentioned in print like that. It brings back that awful moment when we were first told what happened.’
‘But the police
‘They only think they know, Brian.’
‘Inspector Marmion wouldn’t have released this name if he wasn’t pretty sure. People all over the country will know that this Herbert Wylie was responsible for the explosion. Someone is bound to spot him.’
‘What good is that to us?’
‘He’ll be caught, convicted and hanged.’
‘That won’t bring Florrie back, will it?’
‘No,’ he conceded, ‘but it will give us the satisfaction of knowing that the person who murdered her will get his just desserts.’ He put the paper aside. ‘I intend to be in court to see it happen.’
They were in the living room. The only bonus of their daughter’s death was that June had been able to enjoy her husband’s company for successive evenings. After work, he often dined at his club or went to a meeting of one of the societies of which he was an active member. It was only at weekends that they spent any time together. Though irritated by his regular recourse to one of the newspapers, she was pleased to see that his spirits had lifted. Immediately after the news of the explosion, Ingles had been close to despair. Instead of consoling his wife, he’d been in need of consolation himself. It was June who’d had to find the strength to carry the two of them through the initial horror. That had changed now. Ingles had recovered his habitual self-confidence and shrugged off his earlier torpor. What pleased his wife was that he was no longer talking about selling the house. She could now think of ways of improving their existing home.
‘We need new curtains in here,’ she said.
‘No, we don’t.’
‘Take a proper look at them, Brian. They’ve faded badly.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with them.’
‘But you promised me that I could choose some new ones.’
‘Did I?’ he said in surprise. ‘When was that?’
‘Months ago — don’t you remember?’
‘There are more important things to spend our money on, June, so you can forget about the curtains.’
‘But you said that we’d go to London one day to look at fabrics.’
‘That will have to wait,’ he said, brusquely.
‘I’ve been waiting for ages already.’
‘For heaven’s sake, June, stop blathering on about curtains!’
His harsh tone alarmed her. ‘I’m sorry.’
There was a hurt silence. He tried to make amends for his momentary outburst by offering her a conciliatory smile and a pat on the knee. After another glance at the headline in the newspaper on his lap, he changed the subject.
‘Did I tell you that I saw Neil Beresford this morning?’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘you didn’t.’
‘He’d just been to the newsagent’s. It was quite cold but he was wearing a singlet and a pair of shorts. Apparently, he’d been out running.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll have to ask him. It seems a strange thing to do at a time like this.’
‘I envy him,’ she admitted. ‘Neil Beresford lost his wife but he’s young enough to find another one. We can never replace Florrie.’
‘Don’t go on about it, June.’
‘But it’s true.’
‘I know,’ he said, squeezing her hand, ‘but we mustn’t let it cloud our thoughts indefinitely. We have to build our lives anew — and so will the families of the other victims.’
Seeing the deep sorrow in her eyes and the sag in her shoulders, he tried to cheer her up. He put his newspaper aside and crossed to examine the curtains.
‘I can’t see them properly in this light,’ he said, holding the fabric, ‘but they do look as if they’ve faded a bit.’
‘We’ve had them for five years, Brian. We need a change.’
‘Perhaps we do. Let me think about it.’
‘Thank you.’
The telephone rang in the hall. Ingles was on the move at once.
‘That might be the inspector,’ he said, hopefully. ‘I asked him to ring the moment he had any positive news.’
He left the room and lifted the receiver with a smile on his face. But it was not Marmion at the other end of the line. It was a voice that chilled him to the bone.
‘Hello,’ said a man. ‘Do you remember me?’
The stationmaster was a mine of information. He knew the times of departure of every passenger train that came there during the day and he also knew when the regular goods trains were due. The detectives had not lost Niall Quinn, after all. They knew where he was going. According to the stationmaster, the goods train on which the Irishman had contrived a free ride was heading for a marshalling yard some fifteen miles or so away. Since it would maintain a reasonable speed all the way, it would give Quinn little opportunity to get off in transit. If they could get to the destination before the train, they stood a chance of catching the fugitive. It meant a mad dash in the car and considerable discomfort for the two passengers as they were thrown about in the rear seats but
