Murder on the Line

By John Creasey

Roger ‘Handsome’ West of Scotland Yard is pitted against a ruthless criminal network. They will stop at nothing in their pursuit of bribery, corruption, and theft. Their target now is the Railway system and amongst them is a cold-blooded killer whom West must capture. Against him is an organisation with money to spare and no compunction about murder if it is in their interests.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Stratus
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780755137732

John Creasey

Master crime fiction writer John Creasey's near 600 titles have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages under both his own name and ten other pseudonyms. His style varied with each identity and led to him being regarded as a literary phenomena. Amongst the many series written were 'Gideon of Scotland Yard', 'The Toff', 'The Baron', 'Dr. Palfrey' and 'Inspector West', as JJ Marric, Michael Halliday, Patrick Dawlish and others. During his lifetime Creasey enjoyed an ever increasing reputation both in the UK and overseas, especially the USA. This was further enhanced by constant revision of his works in order to assure the best possible be presented to his readers and also by many awards, not least of which was being honoured twice by the Mystery Writers of America, latterly as Grand Master. He also found time to found the Crime Writers Association and become heavily involved in British politics - standing for Parliament and founding a movement based on finding the best professionals in each sphere to run things. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

Book preview

Chapter One

Lonely Death

‘Sure you’ll be all right, dear?’ Maude Hallam asked.

‘Of course I will, I was here long enough on my own before I took the final step into matrimony, wasn’t I?’ her husband answered, and gave her a hug and a kiss which made her breathless. ‘You go and enjoy the pictures with your mum, and have a good breakfast tomorrow before you come to get my dinner. I’ll want a big one, mind.’

‘The biggest ever,’ Maude said. ‘That’s a promise. Dave, leave the washing up for me, won’t you?’

‘You bet your life I will!’

They laughed for no particular reason, as they often did because they were both young and happy. Dave Hallam, who was very tall, ducked beneath the doorway of the cottage as he followed Maude out. She stood only a little higher than his shoulder, not only short but plump, with fat strong legs and fat strong arms and the clear skin of health hardened by country life. She was dark-haired and brown-eyed and had a little snub of a nose. Hallam was painfully thin, and his nose and chin were so pointed that people were fascinated when they saw him for the first time. He looked hardly strong enough to pull the levers of the small signal box which was in sight of the cottage, standing just on one side of the long gleaming railway line which stretched through the wooded land until it curved out of sight among pine and fir trees.

The narrow, winding country road which crossed the line here hardly seemed to warrant a level crossing, but especially in the summer the road was very busy, and even the line was busier than most people realised, being part of a loop line between Southampton and several large seaside resorts farther west. The signals controlled by this box were at the other end of the loop; there were four handles in all. ‘I think I can hear the bike,’ Maude said.

‘Might be anyone coming along,’ retorted Dave, and bent down to nip the dying petals off some dwarf roses, which were flowering well although it was now October. The holiday traffic was dwindling, and there was already the nip of winter in the morning and evening air.

‘I’d recognise Dad’s old motor-bike anywhere,’ Maude insisted.

They stood together, looking towards the east and Southampton, while the chug-chug of a two-stroke engine drew nearer. The cottage and the gates stood in a small clearing, with the trees of the New Forest growing at the edges, but the clearing looked as neat and tidy and as colourful as any keen gardener could make it. At the back of the cottage, hidden by a tall, brown beech hedge, was a vegetable garden large and prolific enough to supply all the vegetables the couple needed, with plenty left over for Maude’s family. A big wicker basket, with some potatoes, carrots, onions, and a few late beans, as well as some apples, stood by the level crossing gates, which were open. The next to pass would be a passenger train which stopped at all stations between Southampton and Wimborne, and not long after that there would be two goods trains – the second at nine o’clock, or twenty-one hours, after which Dave could go to bed and sleep until nearly six o’clock.

A motor-cycle combination swung into sight, and Maude exclaimed: ‘See, I was right!’

‘Sure you wouldn’t like to stay until Dad can bring you back tomorrow evening?’ Dave asked.

‘I wouldn’t dream of bringing him out here two nights running,’ Maude declared. ‘Besides, I don’t want to leave you to get three meals for yourself, I’d never hear the last of it!’ They laughed again; and her father, a small, lean man with a very thin neck which seemed to stick turkey-like out of a swathe of heavy clothes, smiled at the sight of them. Maude had married late – at thirty-one – but hers was a happiness which had been well worth waiting for.

Her father drew up, and the clattering engine stopped.

‘Wotcha, you two.’

‘Hallo, Dad.’ Maude went across and kissed him, and Dave picked up the basket and tucked it into the back of the sidecar, behind the seat. It was an old, solid-looking combination, and the sidecar had been made with a craftsman’s care by Maude’s father. ‘Coming in to have a cuppa before we go?’

‘I promised your mother I’d have you there by a quarter to seven, and it’s nearly six now,’ answered the older man. ‘You won’t mind if we get straight off, Dave, will you?’

‘Glad to be rid of the old woman for a bit,’ declared Dave, then instantly saw that it was the wrong thing to say: a momentary look of dismay glinted in his wife’s eyes, and she bit her lips. In a moment, he had her in his arms, kissing her fiercely, and when he let her go he said a little huskily: ‘You can’t get back soon enough for me, Maude.’

Her smile was radiant. Her father looked the other way.

Five minutes afterwards, Hallam waved as the motorcycle turned out of sight, then ran his fingers through his thin, fair hair, glanced at his wristwatch with its thick leather strap, and hurried to a shed at the side of the cottage where he kept the gardening tools. He took out the small hand mower and ran it over the tiny lawns, then fetched the edging shears and trimmed the edges as neatly as if these were the grounds of a palace. At last he stopped and went across to the little signal box, climbed up the steps, glanced at the large clock on the wall, and saw that it wanted five minutes to seven. Maude would be with her mother by now, and a bell would ring any minute to tell him that the passenger train had entered his section. He opened his log book, kept in a surprisingly bold handwriting, and picked up an oil can; as he did so, the first bell rang. He oiled the levers, then pulled the east lever so that the signal on the up line was clear. Soon he would hear the roar of the train, and after that he would see it tearing down the lines towards him, for all the world as if it would crash into the cabin. As it passed, everything loose would rattle and shake, the wooden floor would quiver a little, and afterwards there would be a strange yet familiar stillness. He would be almost sorry that it had gone by.

He loved trains.

At seven-six exactly, he heard its menacing roar in the distance, and at seven-seven it thundered up to the cabin. There was a moment of impact, as if a high wind had struck the flimsy structure. Then came the swoosh! and Dave watched the windows flashing by, saw the people sitting in the corners, noticed a golden-haired child in a corridor waving, and waved back. He recognised Tod Morden, one of the old guards, who lived near Maude’s folks, before the monster became just a disappearing shape in the distance. When it began to take the wide curve, he caught a glimpse of the engine, then of the green carriages with the evening sunlight reflected on the windows; soon there was only the fading rumble of sound.

He cleared the line, and said to himself as he had a thousand times before his marriage: ‘Well, that’s the last passenger for the day.’ He made his entry in the log book, and went out of the cabin, locking the door. It would be the better part of two hours before he need return, and he had supper to get and wash up, in spite of what Maude had said. There was no light for gardening, but he knew exactly what he was going to do: listen to the radio while painting the kitchen woodwork. He went out to the shed, pushed some old sacks aside, and took out a seven-pound tin of quick-drying, hard-gloss royal blue paint. From a kitchen cupboard he took a paintbrush and some sandpaper. The woodwork had been rubbed down weeks ago, it only needed a quick rub over.

The strong smell of paint soon filled the cottage. As he worked, he hummed or whistled in time with the radio music. He could hardly wait to see Maude’s face when she saw what he had done, and he could finish the whole job, tonight – it would be as hard as the old paint by the morning.

The work absorbed him, but his mind was so geared to a timetable that he was on his way to the cabin with five minutes to spare. It was pitch dark, except for the streamer of light which came from the front room of the cottage, and that went practically as far as the foot of the wooden steps. He carried a torch, but there was one of the old-fashioned oil lanterns at the foot of the steps, and he paused to light this in the faint glow of the cottage window. As he put it back on its nail, he thought he heard a sound from the door of the cabin, and glanced up; but the flickering lamplight fell on to a closed door.

‘Must have been mistaken,’ he said, in a clear and carrying voice, and started up the wooden steps. They creaked a lot, and it was seldom that he noticed it, but the imagined noise had made him unusually alert tonight, and he was listening intently. ‘Could have been a board creaking,’ he reassured himself, and reached the door, holding his flashlight in one hand and his key in the other. He pushed the key in, without groping, and twisted.

It would not turn.

‘That’s funny,’ he said, and paused. ‘Could’ve sworn I locked it.’ Standing there, he could remember the actual twist of his fingers as he had turned the key. He did not understand this, yet had no sense of impending disaster. ‘Must be sommat wrong with the lock,’ he went on, and thrust the door open.

It swung back freely. His torch light shone on the glistening levers, the wires, the shining brass of the clock, and a lamp, all the small and familiar things; and everything was as usual, of course, there was no reason why it should not be. He stepped in, puzzled about the door, and ready to light the oil lamp which hung above the levers; he always had at least one lamp alight, in case the electricity failed.

Then he heard a movement behind him, and this time there was no possibility of a mistake. He spun round. He saw a smallish man, right arm upraised, with something which looked heavy in his hand. Dave swung his own arm. A solid weight smashed on it, causing a moment’s agonising pain, but he had saved his head. He was facing his assailant now – and the light of his torch shone on the man’s eyes, making them glisten. In that moment of turning he had realised that he was in acute danger, and he flung the torch into the man’s face, then swung wildly, trying to strike the assailant with his clenched fist.

He heard the man shout: ‘Legge!’

As he struck back desperately, he heard an answering call from outside.

‘Hold him! I’m coming!’

Both the name and the voice were unbelievably familiar, and for a wild moment Hallam thought that Legge was coming to his aid, not his assailant’s. So he dropped his guard. The man in front of him leapt again, smashing that heavy object on to his arms, which were held high to protect his head. Agony shot through his left arm. He heard the clatter of a man hurrying up the stairs, and then felt an awful blow on the top of his head. It made him sick and it made his knees double up beneath him. He tried to speak.

‘L-L-Leggy,’ he gasped, ‘Leggy, don’t—’

He could not see except for a shadow which dimmed the friendly light from the cottage. He knew that Legge was that shadow. He was on the floor, half fainting, and his head seemed to swell; then he was struck again, and the blow seemed to cut his head in two.

The man Legge bent over Dave Hallam, with the flickering light of a lamp shining on the crimson which stained the signalman’s fair hair and pale forehead. He was holding Dave’s left wrist, taking his pulse. The other, leaner man was standing up and holding the lamp; he was making little popping noises all the time.

‘Is he—is he—dead?’

Legge let the limp arm fall, and wiped blood off a spanner.

‘Yep,’ he said, laconically. ‘Dead as a doornail. What we’ve got to do is decide what to do with him. We can’t leave him here, that’s certain.’ He was silent for what seemed a long time, and the other man went on making that little popping noise. ‘Better get him out on the line. Wrap his head up, so’s the blood don’t fall on the floor or outside. We can use that old towel of his. Snap out of it, can’t you? If we keep our heads no one will ever know we had anything to do with it.’

‘I—I didn’t mean to have anything to do with murder,’ the other man muttered. ‘Oh, God, I didn’t mean—’

‘Once you told him who I was, his number was up,’ said Legge cold-bloodedly. He tucked the spanner inside his khaki jacket. ‘If you’re going far in this game you’d better not lose your nerve. Now, gimme that towel.’

‘What—what about the train?’

‘We let it through, of course; we aren’t stopping any train here tonight, properly give the game away that would,’ answered Legge. ‘Now gimme that towel, and then set the signal, it’s time that train entered the loop. Seeing you’re so sensitive, I’ll wrap his head up.’ The yellow light shone on his very bright eyes, and they seemed to be darting to and fro. ‘I know what we’ll do,’ he went on, very thoughtfully. ‘We’ll put him on the line just before the train comes along. It’ll look like an accident. Get a move on.’

The other man cut across his words: ‘Look! There’s a car! There’s a light!’

Both men were standing up, both were staring out of the window when the car approaching turned a bend in the narrow, lonely, gravel-surfaced road which ran alongside the railway for some distance and led slightly downhill to the signal box, and also to the wider, hard-surfaced road which crossed the railway track. For a moment the headlights fell on to the signal box, and on to their faces. Legge dropped out of sight first, and the other seemed paralysed until Legge dragged him down. The light filled the box with unearthly brightness, before the car turned again and its headlights shone across the track, showing the open crossing gates.

‘What’re we going to do if they stop?’ the thickset man muttered, and as he spoke the car slowed down – either to stop because the driver had noticed something odd, or else to lessen the bumping over the rails.

Chapter Two

Lonely Travellers

Just before they took the turning to the right, Doris Manning said: ‘Isn’t it a bit late to take that short cut, Abel?’

‘Just the time for it,’ Abel King answered. ‘There won’t be any other traffic about, and we’ll get to Southampton in half the time we would along the main road. Besides—don’t you like the idea of being alone in the New Forest with me, honey?’ There was laughter in his voice, as if he believed that by laughing he could drive away her nervousness. ‘Look out for the signpost, won’t you?’

‘Are you sure we haven’t passed it?’ Doris asked.

‘Positive,’ King assured her. He took a hand off the wheel to pat hers, and as he did so the headlights picked out a white fingerpost pointing to the right. ‘There it is!’ He swung the wheel, and the car swayed to one side almost dangerously, and then righted itself. ‘You’re not really scared, are you?’

‘I suppose not,’ Doris said doubtfully.

King laughed. ‘That’s one way of saying that you can’t make up your mind. It’s only twenty minutes, and funnily enough there aren’t any ponies or cows on this road, like there are on the main road. Sit closer to me.’

‘I’m all right,’ Doris said.

In fact, she was trying to scoff at her own fears, knowing that there was no need for them while she was with Abel. On her own, she would never have ventured off the main road after dark, but there was no particular reason for such dread: she had always felt the same about the countryside by night. Yet she could see that in some ways it made easier driving than the main road, where cars came towards them every minute or two, and they were continually dazzled. Here, the powerful white lights of the Vauxhall shone on the pale surface of the gravel road, which was hardly wide enough for two cars. At first they ran across open moorland, but soon Doris saw the narrow trunks of trees, standing straight as telegraph poles. Here the forest had been planted twenty years or so ago, and the trees were nearing maturity. They were so thick that it reminded her eerily of a graveyard with blackened headstones, yet where the headlights struck, the trees were bright enough. Now and again there was a small clearing, and the green of bushes not yet withered with autumn’s chill showed clearly. Some dying ferns looked like old witches drooping. Once, they passed a cottage with a white gate and pale walls, and the headlight beams shimmered on the tiny windows.

The narrow road became more winding, the forest seemed darker, perhaps because they were forced to slow down. Doris found herself sitting very still and tense and looking ahead of her all the way. Then they turned a bend, and Abel said: ‘There we are, look; civilization!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Lidstock level crossing, a cottage, and a good road again,’ Abel declared. ‘There’s the warning sign. I’m going to slow down for the bumps.’ He braked slowly, and the car swayed up and down, going slightly downhill, then turning a shallow bend on to the hard-surface road. Straight in front of them was a signal box, and standing inside it were two men. One of