Banks pointed to the shotgun and the canvas bag. “Can we get this stuff to your lab?” he asked Jarrell. “That shotgun’s probably evidence in a murder case.”
Jarrell nodded. “No problem.”
As Hatchley bent to pick up the shotgun, careful to handle only the material it was wrapped in, and as Banks reached for the canvas bag, a message for Jarrell crackled through on his personal radio.
“Jarrell here. Over.”
“HQ, sir. Subject, Arthur Jameson, spotted at Aylesbury railway station at nine fifty-three A.M. Subject bought London ticket. Now standing on platform. Locals await instructions. Over.”
“Has he spotted them?”
“They say not, sir.”
“Tell them to keep their distance.” Jarrell looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. “When’s the next train?” he asked.
“Twelve minutes past ten, sir.”
“Which route?”
“Marylebone via Amersham.”
“Thank you. Stand by.” Jarrell turned to Banks and Hatchley. “We can pick up that train at Great Missenden or Amersham if you want,” he said.
Banks looked first at Hatchley, then back at Jarrell. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
3
Banks and Hatchley boarded the train separately at Amersham at ten thirty-two. Reluctantly, Superintendent Jarrell, being the local man, had agreed to stay behind and coordinate the Thames Valley end of the operation.
Neither Banks nor Hatchley looked much like a policeman that morning. Waking miserably to the middle-of-the-night phone call, Banks had put on jeans, a light cotton shirt and a tan sports jacket. Over this, he had thrown on his Columbo raincoat. Even though he had done his best to clean the mud off his shoes with a damp rag, it still showed.
Sergeant Hatchley wore his shiny blue suit, white shirt and no tie; he looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backward, but there was nothing unusual in that.
They had been told by the Transport Police, who had spotted Jameson, that the suspect still resembled his photograph except that he had about two days’ growth around his chin and cheeks. He looked like a rambler. He was wearing gray trousers of some light material tucked into walking boots at the ankles, a green open-neck shirt and an orange anorak. Nice of him, Banks thought, dressing so easy to spot. He was also carrying a heavy rucksack, which no doubt held his gun and money, amongst other things.
The train rattled out of the station. Banks managed to find a seat next to a young woman who smiled at him briefly as he sat down, then went back to reading her copy of PC Magazine. Banks had his battered brown leather briefcase with him, and its chief contents were his omnibus paperback copy of Waugh’s Sword of Honour and his Walkman. He opened the book at the marker and started to read, but every so often he glanced at the man in the green short-sleeve shirt who sat about four seats down, over to his left. The rucksack and the orange anorak lay on the luggage rack above.
The train moved in a comforting rhythm, but Banks couldn’t help feeling tense. He left the Walkman in his briefcase because he was too distracted to listen to music.
They could probably take Jameson right now, he thought. He and Jim Hatchley. Just approach quietly from behind like anyone going to the toilet and grab an arm each. The gun, surely, was up in the rucksack on the luggage rack.
But it wasn’t worth the risk. Something could go wrong. Jameson could hold the entire coach hostage. It didn’t bear thinking about. This way was far safer and would, with a little patience, skill and luck, guarantee success.
Banks and Hatchley had got on the train simply to keep an eye on Jameson. At the station, Superintendent Jarrell had talked to the Yard, who promised that there would be a number of plainclothes officers waiting at Marylebone, mixed in with the crowds. These men were experts at surveillance, and they would keep Jameson in sight, no matter how he travelled, without being spotted, until he arrived at his final destination, be it hotel or house.
Some were posing as taxi-drivers, and, with luck, Jameson would get into one of their cabs. Banks had every intention of trying to keep up with the chase, but it was comforting to know that if he lost sight of Jameson, someone else would have him. There were plainclothes officers at all the stops on the way, too, in case he got off, but Jameson had bought a ticket for London and it was almost certain that was where he was heading. Given his past, he would likely know someone there who could help get him out of the country. What Banks hoped – and this was one of the main reasons for letting their quarry go to ground – was that Jameson would lead them to his accomplice in the Rothwell murder.
As the train rattled out of Rickmansworth, Jameson got up and walked past Banks on his way to the toilet. Banks looked down at his book, not registering the words his eyes passed over. While Jameson was gone, he stared at the khaki rucksack and held himself back. How easy it would be, he thought, just to take it, then grab Jameson when he came back. But he had to keep thinking like a policeman, not give in to the maverick instinct, however strong. This way, with a little patience, the catch might be bigger.
And there was another reason. The gun might not be in the rucksack. Jameson’s trousers were of the bulky, many-pocketed kind favored by ramblers. Banks had glanced quickly as he went by and hadn’t been able to discern the weight or outline of a gun, but it could be there, and there were too many civilians present to make the risk worthwhile. Best wait. He thought of how much money there might be in the rucksack and smiled at how ironic it would be if someone snatched it while Jameson was having a piss.
Jameson came back. They passed Harrow and entered a landscape of factory yards, piles of tires and orange oil drums, pallets, warehouses, schoolyards full of screaming kids, bleak housing estates, concrete overpasses. Before long, the people in the carriage were standing up to get their jackets and bags as the train rumbled slowly into Marylebone station, all anxious to be first off.
Banks spotted Hatchley ahead of him, his head above most people in the crowd that shuffled through the ticket gate. Jameson had his anorak on now and was easy to keep in sight. Banks noticed him look around and lick his lips every now and then, sad, cruel puppy-dog eyes scanning the station forecourt.
But there was nothing to see. Nothing out of the ordinary. The uniformed Transport Police went about their business as usual, people leafed through magazines at the bookstall or headed for the buffet, checked the schedule displays, ran for trains. Carts of luggage and mail threaded in and out of the crowds, announcements about forthcoming departures came over the public-address system in the usual monotone echoing from the roof, where pigeons nested. To Banks, the station smelled of diesel oil and soot, though the age of steam was long gone.