The Last Train to Scarborough

'Will Nugent be staying at the house too?'

'Could do,' said the Chief. 'You might be glad of a mate… Some pretty queer types in this house, apparently.'

'They've all been questioned, I assume. Statements have been taken.'

'They have, lad.'

'Answers not satisfactory?'

'They en't,' said the Chief.

The Chief was grinning at me. I was growing anxious, and he liked that.

'Do you have the case papers to hand, sir?'

But I somehow knew he wouldn't have. Clerking was no part of real police work, at least not to the Chief's mind.

'Well now, there's been a mix-up over that,' he said. 'They were meant to've been sent but they've not come. The earliest I can get them now is Monday morning, but it'll do you good to go in there blind. You'll bring a fresh pair of eyes to it all.'

'I think that's what's called a mixed metaphor,' I said, and I left off the 'sir', which I would generally add, as an insurance policy, when talking to the Chief.'… Or maybe not,' I said, seeing the way he was eyeing me.

'When do you start in that fucking solicitor's office?' he said.

'It's not decided yet, if you recall… sir.'

'It's already rubbing off on you.'

The Chief took a pull on his beer. More was coming, I knew.

'Bloody infected, you are.'

Was this Scarborough job his way of penalising me for leaving the force? Of course it was. The Chief was down on all lawyers. In court, they had a habit of asking him, 'And what accounts for the injuries sustained by the accused in your custody, Chief Inspector Weatherill?'

I asked, 'Was Blackburn married?'

'He was not,' said the Chief, 'but he was engaged – had been for ages.'

'Might be an idea to talk to her.'

'I think the Leeds blokes have had a word. She's a bit flighty, moved about a lot, very different from Blackburn.'

'What was he like?'

'Grave bloke,' said the Chief. 'Quiet. Bit of a lone wolf…

Big Catholic, as a matter of fact.'

I tried to figure him in my mind: a big, quiet, dark bloke. But the picture that came was of a big, quiet, dark Catholic church I'd seen hard by a railway line in Leeds. St Anne's, I believed it was called.

'Tell you something else about him,' said the Chief. 'He was a bloody good shot.'

I bought another pint, and the Chief climbed onto the stage and made a speech. Well, it was more a reading of notices. The office was doing creditably well. More crimes solved than last year. A collection would shortly be taken for the North Eastern Railway super-annuation fund. The Riflemen's League was always looking out for new members, ditto the York Territorials. A fellow ought to be able to fire a rifle – he never knew when it might not come in. Vote of thanks to the landlord of the Beeswing, and that was that. The drinking was carried on for another hour, and then we all piled on the last tram back to York.

I sat next to Shillito, the other sergeant, and behind Flower and Whittaker.

'My cousin's six foot seven,' Whittaker was saying.

'You en't half a spinner,' said Flower.

'You reckon⁷.'

'Don't ask rhetorical questions.'

'Are you bloody well accusing me of asking rhetorical questions?' Whittaker asked Flower.

'There, you've just asked another,' said Flower. 'You don't even know what one bloody is.'

Wright was kipping on the front seat.

'Is Wrighty okay?' I asked Shillito.

'He has his troubles just now,' he said, which was a very

Wright-like reply.

My head reeled a little, and I felt it best to avoid looking through the windows, for the street lamps would rush up rather fast. As the tram jolted and jerked its way, I felt the motion to be unnatural. It was a heartless machine – no fire burning in its innards. I closed my eyes, and then we were at the railway station and piling off. The Chief was first down, and straight into the cab shelter. I watched him amid all the rattling of horses' hooves and cab wheels, and the loud, echoing goodbyes of all the blokes. The Chief was walking fast towards a bloke coming out of the station. He looked behind and saw me as he advanced on this bloke. The Chief collared him by calling out, A word…!' and then a name I didn't catch. The two closed, and began talking, the Chief twice more looking around in my direction, which was not characteristic of him, since he didn't usually bother about other people. Was the Chief going down the hill? He was too often juiced; too often out of the office; too careless of his paperwork; too old. I eyed the bloke the Chief was talking to. The bloke glanced my way once, and then looked down, rather shamefully I thought, as though I was the subject under discussion. Who was he? I knew him from somewhere.

I walked away towards the bike rack, which was under the cab shelter. I was taking the front lamp from the saddle bag, prior to fixing it on, when old man Wright walked up.

He said, 'I've a bottle of whisky in the office, if you fancy a nightcap,' and he was trying to steady himself, as though he was on board a ship.

It was such a strange turn-up that I immediately agreed, and re-stowed the lamp in the saddle bag.

'What's brought this on, Wrighty?' I asked, as we stepped through into the station.

He made no reply, but just concentrated on walking straight.

In the station, I saw few people. Instead, the trains were in charge – they had the run of the place. There were not many, it being late, but the night-time trains seem to make more noise and let off more steam than trains of the day. The last Leeds train was making hard work of pulling away from the bay platform, Number Six. We were on the main 'up' platform, where the police office stood, and Wrighty was veering wide, approaching the white line of the platform edge. Then, half running, he climbed the steps of the footbridge and crossed to the main 'down'.

'Wrighty!' I called out. 'What's going off?'

But I was drowned out by the thundering of a great coal train coming up on the 'down' line. The loco was black, the smoke was black, and every wagon thoroughly blackened. It was as if the English night itself had been put on rails and carted north. I crossed the footbridge as the train ran underneath, and I saw Wright on the very edge of the main 'down'.

'What's up, Wrighty?' I shouted at him.

'Nowt,' he said.

'Well then!' I shouted, and Wright kept silence but the train did not. It seemed to come on eternally, like the turning of a wheel, and Wright stood at the platform edge facing the wagons as though expecting them to stop so that he might climb aboard. He stood too close to them for my liking. I pulled at his sleeve to draw him back away, at which he turned about, and I saw that his face was quite different. He didn't look as if he was blubbing, but I knew that was what the alteration signified. He said something, and I couldn't make it out for the thundering of the wagons.

'Come away from here, Wrighty!' I shouted.

But he made no move, and once more addressed the flying coal wagons.

'Jane's left me.'

'Eh?'

'She's left me!'

I could hardly credit it. Wrighty had been married to Jane for forty years. I couldn't think what to say, but after a dozen more wagons or so, I shouted, 'Don't take on, Wrighty!'

'I was always home to her directly!' Wright shouted at the train. 'I was never a stop-out!'

'Your missus is a decent sort!' I shouted back, 'You must be able to…'

But I couldn't think what.

Suddenly a flying, flimsy brake wagon signified the end of the train, and Wright and I stood in silence, the empty tracks before us.

'Let's go into the office and put a brew on,' I said, but Wright shook his head. I tried to pull him back from the platform edge in case he had it in mind to wait for another train, and pitch himself in front of it. I thought: This is more like the kind of drama that happens when you've missed the last tram, and I pictured Jane Wright: a sensible woman with a lot of grey hair. She smoked cigarettes and had a smile that was fetching on account of teeth that went in. I'd never been able to make out what she saw in Wright, who didn't have a nice smile, or any at all come to that. After forty years of marriage, that might become rather wearing.