‘Apologies. We’re all a bit on edge. Your assistance is appreciated.’
With no more to do, Isaac and Farhan exited the building. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The previously eager onlookers had – bar a few – retreated inside and back to bed or to watch news reports on the television. All the major channels were in the street with their cameras focussed on the house.
‘What next?’ Farhan asked.
‘No point going home,’ Isaac said.
‘I need to have a shower and change. I’ll be there in an hour.’
‘Give me ninety minutes.’ Isaac realised he may as well return home and take a shower too. A murder scene gave him an uncomfortable feeling. A shower always seemed to help, as if he was washing the horror and the sight of the dead body away.
‘Any ideas?’ Farhan asked as he was getting into his car.
‘We need to find this damn woman. She’s the key to this.’
***
Cecil Broughton, the station manager at Paddington Station, had seen the transition of the railways for fifty years. He was still an upright man, close to retirement at sixty-five, hopeful of a reprieve due to the government considering pushing the retirement age up closer to seventy. Wendy Gladstone liked him immediately.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said as she entered his office. It had a warm feeling to it, almost a relic of an earlier age, the walls adorned with pictures of trains through the years, mainly steam. The paint on the walls was flaking in places and the carpet threadbare ‒ how he liked it.
‘Some people are taken aback when they enter.’
‘Why’s that?’ Wendy asked.
‘They expect the office to be modern and smelling of air freshener.’
‘More like old leather in here.’
‘27th November 1965,’ Broughton proudly said.
‘I was just starting school,’ she replied, not fully understanding the significance of the date.
‘My first week here, pushing a trolley.’
‘Fifty years in the one place?’
‘I moved around over the years, but I always intended to finish my time at Paddington. I remember that day well.’
‘Why?’
‘The last day a steam train exited this station, Clun Castle, heading through Slough, Swindon, Bristol, before terminating in Gloucester.’
‘Do you remember them all?’
‘Most, I suppose. Trains have been a passion all my life.’
What the last train had to do with the smell in the office still eluded her.
‘It’s the seats,’ he said.
‘Pardon.’
‘That’s the smell. I retrieved them from Clun Castle.’
‘You sound resentful of the trains today.’
‘Not at all,’ he reflected. ‘Brilliant technical achievements, just lacking in character. Anyway, you didn’t come here to reminisce about trains from the past, did you?’
‘Interesting subject, no doubt,’ she said, although the modern trains suited her fine. She had been on the occasional steam train, school excursions mainly, and she only remembered them as slow and exceedingly smelly.
‘You’re trying to find a missing person.’ Wendy could only reflect as she sat there how different he was to her husband. Broughton, alert and in his sixties; her husband, a few years younger, yet older in mind and body, and bitter about his life.
‘We believe the woman boarded the Paddington train in Worcester.’
‘Are you certain?’ he asked.
‘She probably bought the ticket from a machine at the station.’
‘That makes it difficult.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘How to identify her. Do you know what she was wearing?’
‘I’ve already passed on details to your people. We’re reviewing the tapes from Worcester Station. You have more cameras at Paddington, and people trained to watch the monitors.’
‘Major issue these days. No idea where the next idiot is going to let off a bomb.’
‘Any problems in the past?’
‘Not since 1991.’
‘February 1991. IRA, two bombs; one here and another at Victoria. No fatalities here, one dead at Victoria,’ Wendy said.
‘You’ve got a good memory.’
‘Probably not as good as yours. I was assigned to Victoria to assist in the investigation.’
‘It’s best if I take you up to our video surveillance department. You’ve time for a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘British Rail has an excellent reputation for making tea.’
‘A tradition worth upholding,’ she replied. ‘I don’t remember the sandwiches with the same fondness.’
‘These days they come in a cellophane bag. At least they won’t be stale. Not all traditions are worth preserving.’
The tea arrived, hot and milky, just the way she liked it, two spoons of sugar as well. She noticed that the station manager had Earl Grey with no sugar.
***
The walk from the office, through the heart of the station with its milling passengers, to the surveillance department took less than five minutes. Broughton’s office had been nostalgic; the area she entered was not. It was modern and efficient, with numerous monitors displaying all areas of the station.
Brian Gee, a young man in his early thirties, was in charge. He introduced himself and gave the police constable a guided tour of his domain. ‘State of the art, best there is,’ he said.
‘I’m not really into computers.’ She noticed that Brian Gee was a remarkably active man, almost hyperactive. Her youngest son, Brad, had been the same as a child but had grown out of it; Brian Gee had not. He was fidgeting, moving from one foot to the other, fiddling with a pen, or picking up a piece of paper only to put it down again.
‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, I suppose. I’ll admit to being a computer nerd.’
‘Any luck finding the missing woman?’ She had supplied a description earlier before arriving at the station, although it had been necessarily vague: green dress, just below the knees, sensible black shoes, a dark overcoat, and a blue hat with a brim. She had also mentioned the sunglasses and the name of Marjorie Frobisher.
