Chapter Thirty
Eric was at the station in Norwich far earlier than he needed to be. Waking with a growing anxiety about not being able to find suitable parking and subsequently missing his train to London saw him out of bed before sunrise. He showered as quietly as he could, doing his level best to avoid waking his mother. Unsure if he was successful in the attempt, he didn’t know, but he heard no signs of movement once he was dressed and crept downstairs. A bowl of cereal and he was out of the door.
The 8 A.M. train from Norwich was bound to be busy. Although the majority of those commuting to the capital would have caught earlier connections, the station car park would be full by the time he arrived. Norwich was an infernally awkward place to navigate at the best of times with the thriving modernity of the present juxtaposed on the layout of centuries past. Once England’s second city, with its wealthy agricultural heritage, the ravages of the Industrial Revolution were bypassed leaving the area untouched by the mass influx of labour and enterprise. Eric liked that history. Although he knew for a time the area suffered as a result of clinging to the past it was now very much forward-looking with a creative industry to celebrate. He just hated travelling on a deadline.
On the train, he found himself sitting next to a curious man. At first wary of him, heavily tattooed with the sides of his head shaved and oiled hair swept back in a quiff that would make TinTin jealous, Eric figured they would have little in common and didn’t seek to make conversation. As it transpired, the man felt the opposite. He was an engineering contractor, working on construction projects around the world. He was travelling to London to catch a flight to Schipol, in The Netherlands, before continuing on to Angola.
“It’s pretty hectic, what with all the travel and pressure to meet timescales but I love it when I’m back here. Every time I tell myself it’ll be the last trip but…”
“But?” Eric asked, interested. The man smiled.
“The pay cheques are good and I think my wife would go mad with me under her feet. What about you?”
Eric briefly explained his role as a junior accountant. The last time the question was asked he stated he worked for the forestry commission. If at all possible, he avoided telling strangers how he made a living. Not that he wasn’t proud of it, he was, but many people reacted strangely to him when he said so. There were those who mistrusted the police, possibly resulting from a guilty conscience but in most parts just interpreting officers as always looking to make an arrest. Probably they’d been spoken to during their life coarsely in a routine traffic stop or for some minor misdemeanour. That was a failure of understanding. Police officers were trained to be polite and cordial but at the same time authoritative. It went with the warrant card. It still made decent people wary.
The man next to him listened politely but Eric sensed he was either disinterested or unconvinced by his story. The conversation lapsed, eventually ceasing altogether as headphones appeared from the man’s travel bag and soon after his eyes closed as he dropped into his own musical world. What it was, Eric couldn’t tell but it was loud. Far removed from his own softer tastes. Arriving at the recently refurbished Stratford Station shortly before ten, Eric shuffled off the carriage between those remaining on the train and the line of people queueing to board, all jostling for position amongst each other with backpacks and suitcases. This was why he hated large cities. Everyone was always in such a rush.
His mobile vibrated in his pocket and he stepped out of the flow of people on the platform, finding a safe space against one of the supports. It was a text from his contact in Canning Town advising him to take the DLR for the six-minute journey on from Stratford rather than the Jubilee Line. Looking up at the overhead signage, he saw it was a short walk across the concourse. The throng dissipated and the train he arrived on pulled out of the station continuing on to Liverpool Street. Crossing the concourse an announcement was made regarding a delay on underground services bringing a smile to his face.
The knock-on effect was an increase in those using the DLR and Eric was grateful to reach Canning Town station and get off. The iconic skyline of Canary Wharf lay off to his right. Monuments of sparkling glass towering over London’s east end. The text advised they meet at the coffee shack but looking around, he couldn’t see one by that name. There were several concessions, each doing a roaring trade with people milling about. Ringing the number back, it was answered immediately and he located the detective nearby.
Not sure what to expect from DC Frank Chambers, he found the man from North Canning station to be somewhat curious. Estimating him to be fifteen to twenty years his senior, he was a round man, in both face and frame. His cheeks were cherry red and his skin bore a sheen of sweat as one might develop on a summer’s day. However, it was early spring and not particularly warm today despite the sunshine. They were unable to shake hands for both his were occupied by a cup of coffee in one and a steaming pastry of some description in the other. Catching a whiff of the smell drifting from the nearby stall, Eric’s mouth watered. His cereal seemed a long time ago. Not that he
