Murder At Deviation Junction

    'That's funny, is that,' he said, but he was as surprised as anyone; and if anybody meant to laugh, they hadn't got round to it by the time Detective Sergeant Shillito stepped into the room.

    'Morning all,' he said, removing his topcoat and bowler and taking his seat at his desk, which was directly opposite mine. 'Your book please, Detective Stringer.'

    I stood up, and passed him my notebook. He was supposed to initial it at the end of every turn, though he always made a great palaver out of doing so. Everybody watched him as he read. They all knew I was going to be rated by him - it was just a matter of when. Beyond the window, a train was leaving Platform Four, and I wished I could do the same.

    I looked at Shillito's wide, sloping face. I sometimes fancied that he looked like a big Chinaman, though he was from Grimsby originally, and not at all yellow but bluish about the jaw and otherwise red, for he was a keen tippler. Why was he down on me? There'd been the matter of that murder case three years before, the biggest piece of business ever seen in the York office, and only me and the Chief in on it. And then there was the fact that I was aiming to be made up to his rank, even though a good deal younger than him (twenty-seven to his thirty-four). I also knew very well that he saw me as a dreamer, a schoolboy train-watcher, whereas he was on the railway force only by default.

    Engines and the pages of a Bradshaw held no fascination for Shillito, but if there was anything coming off in the way of sport, he had to be involved: football, cricket, rugby, billiards - and especially football. He'd play most weekends, but sometimes had to be content with running the line, or shouting on his mates, for he was forever under suspension for violent tactics, and he was forever moaning about it. He'd sit in the office composing letters to the Yorkshire Evening Press complaining about referees, signing himself only 'an interested spectator' or 'one who is concerned about standards' or such, and never letting on that the referee in question had sent him off the previous weekend for loosening some poor bloke's teeth. Shillito ought to have been a sportsman. He'd been on Northern League forms for some professional lot or other - before he'd blown up with the gallons of beer he put away. Instead, he'd joined the police, and missed his mark in so doing. His perpetual fear was that all the business of investigation, diary-keeping and report-filing would spin out of control if he once relented in the regime of drudgery that he imposed on himself and others.

    He fell to reading the notebook, frowning at the pages as was his way. He himself wrote in a tiny backward-sloping hand, and anything in a slightly freer style he took against. Turning from the third to the fourth page of my account, he sighed and said, 'And the ink flows on, Detective Stringer.'

    Up your arse, I thought.

    He continued reading.

    'Must you always set down the type of engine that has pulled your train?' he enquired, after a further minute of reading.

    I kept silence.

    'Answer me, man,' he said, not looking up.

    'Can't help it, sir,' I said.

    'What do you mean by that?'

    'I'm coached up in observation.'

    Did this amount to insubordination or not? It seemed that Shillito could not quite decide, which is what I had intended. I wished I had the courage to show him my mind: to let him know that I considered him failing in his duty by never providing any encouragement. The wife had told me to speak out, not understanding that my position would be at risk if I did so.

    He looked up again.

    'And what's all this about the weather: 'the snowfall was now severe ... the snowfall, continuing severe ...'?'

    'It had a bearing on events,' I said.

    'What events, Detective Stringer? You were sent north to bring in Clegg. Why did you not give chase when he ran out of the steel mill?'

    'That's not the place for a sprint, sir,' I said.

    Again he digested the remark. Ought he to flash into rage? I could see him weighing the question. He rarely did so in his place of work, and that was where he differed from my first evil governor, Stationmaster Crystal.

    'Now this business of the body -' said Shillito. 'It's a simple enough matter: you are right to make mention of the discovery and of the fact that you stumbled on an acquaintance of the dead man. But then we have page after page about this journalist, and yet more about this Travelling Club and their special carriage.'

    'The dead man was interested in it.'

    'Well, I'm not.'

    Why would he not sign the bloody book and have done?

    'If this becomes a murder investigation,' he said, 'the Travelling Club may become of account. But it seems to me a clear case of suicide.'

    'It warrants investigation,' I said.

    He shook his head.

    'Do you intend asking my permission to pursue the matter?'

    'Yes,' I said, and he looked at me until I put in the word 'sir'.

    'I thought so. And yet you won't keep abreast of the baggage claims.'

    This was the only reasonable grounds for complaint that he had. I found the interception of fare-avoiders dull work, but I stuck at it nonetheless. Baggage claims were a different matter. Whenever luggage was reported stolen, and compensation put in for, I was required to write a report - a 'flash report' as it was called for some mysterious reason. If I found any suspicion of fraud, the Company would fight the claim, but I never did find any. It was all old ladies who'd lost cats, folk thrown into despair by the loss of some article quite useless to the general run of humanity - and very boring.

    'And what about the cardsharpers on the Leeds train?' asked Shillito.

    There had been reports of gaming on York-Leeds evening trains.

    'You are also to see Davitt arrested and charged.'

    Davitt was a York citizen and notorious fare-avoider. He travelled all over the shop, always without a ticket, and it seemed to me that not paying the fare was the whole purpose of his travel.

    The constables were now quitting the office for fear that Shillito would begin asking about their own neglected duties.

    'Above all, you are also to go after friend Clegg again,' Shillito continued, '- and this time you are to gain your object, Detective Stringer. These are your priorities. As for starting up murder investigations in the territory controlled by other divisions of the force - how do you think that will go down with the Middlesbrough fellows?'

    Now this was the meat of the question, and I could see Shillito weighing it in the balance just as I had - only where my aim was my own advancement, his was to check me.

    Captain Fairclough, who was to interview me on Christmas Eve, had particular responsibility for the Northern Division as well running the entire North Eastern force. By interesting myself in the Paul Peters business . . . well, he might not take kindly, nor might his men. Set against that was the fact that here was a chance to make an impression. I might throw light on the Peters mystery before the interview, then make free with my findings.

    There again, whatever I discovered, Shillito would discover also, through his reading of my notebook. If I turned up anything of interest, he would claim the discovery as his own, and so get points with the Middlesbrough men for himself.

    I had been going over this most of the night before, while attending to Harry at hourly intervals, and it seemed I had no choice. As my senior officer, Shillito would write a report for consideration by Captain Fairclough. It would not damn me on all counts. Shillito would try to seem mild, and outside the field of play he was not up to any really bold stroke. But it would not be favourable, no matter how many flash reports I filed between now and Christmas. My best hope of promotion was to bring off something sensational that would outweigh all of Shillito's carping.

    'You are to go north again tomorrow,' he said. 'You are to lay hands on the suspect, and this time no