Murder At Deviation Junction by Andrew Martin Read Free Book Online

cart had the churns lined up on the platform ready
for loading. As the engine came past the snow-crowned signal box, the kid was
leaning on a churn, going over his tale as I made notes in my book with my
indelible pencil. The lad held a long ladle in his hand. He'd lately dipped it
into the churn, and he kept looking down at it rather than drinking from it.
        'But
as soon as you'd done so, you realised you'd made a bloomer over the time?'
        'Aye,'
he said. (He seemed very happy to admit the fact.) 'I worked out that he
wouldn't get there in time to see the Club Train. It would have left
Middlesbrough before he arrived.'
        'Can
you recall the date?'
        He shrugged.
'Run-up to Christmas time.'
        'Why
was he so dead set on seeing the Club Train?'
        'It's
a swanky thing, en't it? Luxury carriage set aside for the toffs. All modern
conveniences carried. Newspapers, hot drinks, ice refrigerator - that's for the
champagne, you know.'
        The
train was beside us now, adding its steam to the whiteness of the air, but the
lad didn't stir himself.
        'Why
don't you drink that milk?' I said.
        'I
like to watch it,' he said, still gazing down at the bowl of the ladle. 'I like
to see the cream rising to the top.'
        He
pitched the milk on top of the platform, and made ready to load the train.
        'That's
what's going to happen to me,' he said, as the train guard jumped down from the
brake van, ready to give a hand. 'I'll rise to the top.'
        'I
started under Crystal myself,' I said. 'I was his lad porter for a while at
Grosmont.'
        The
milk train was in now. Thirty tons of engine stood alongside the kid - a B16
class 4-6-0, very nice motor, and he paid it no mind. Instead, he was thinking
over my remark.
        'And
what are you now?' he asked, giving me a level look.
        'Detective,'
I said. 'Detective . . . sergeant,' and of course it was a lie. 'You'll be
hearing from me again,' I said, re-pocketing my notebook.
        I had
in that moment determined to investigate the matter of Paul Peters, and not
leave it to others. I was bored in my work and in need of distraction. I found
myself thinking: if this is suicide, there will be nothing to plunge into, and
I will be straight back to hunting up ticket frauds and petty hooligans. But as
my thoughts ran on, I found that I was trying to picture whoever had done for
the boy and made it look like suicide.
        Why
would a man come all the way to Stone Farm to make away with himself? Peters
was a young fellow doing work that he enjoyed and with everything before him.
He had not committed suicide. He had been killed - I was on the instant certain
of it - and Stephen Bowman was mixed up in it somehow, or knew more than he let
on. He was standing by the milk train now, having stepped across from the
station building, camera once again over his shoulder. Why had he come to this
station on this day? But no - he hadn't made the choice to come. We had all
been turfed off the train against expectations. And as for the reason for his
being on the line . . . well, he was staying at Whitby. But there
was more to it than that.
        Crystal,
ready to depart for his bed, stood in the booking office doorway. I would show
him what I was made of - him and Shillito both. I would search for the truth
about Peters, and if I made enough headway before Christmas Eve, I might be DS
by New Year.
        I
climbed into the one passenger carriage with Bowman. We were railway rovers,
him and me both. Any man who wanted to make his way in the modern world had to
be. We stowed our cameras on the luggage racks. Bowman, not looking at me,
said, 'Your wife said you were detective grade. But you gave out to the boy
that you were detective sergeant.'
        I
coloured up while removing my topcoat. He didn't miss much, for all the booze
he put away. He must have a head like cast iron.
        'I
have the grade "detective