Last Train to Lime Street E-Book

Brian L. Porter

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

As the midnight train from Manchester to Liverpool approaches the city, it hits the body of a man. After the police look into the case, they learn that the man was a well-known movie director - of the adult variety.

Soon, they find out that the man's list of enemies is almost as long as the railway line from Manchester to Liverpool, with two ex-wives who both have a motive for murder.

But is his murder personal or professional, and who is the killer?

Leseprobe

Last Train to Lime Street

Mersey Murder Mysteries Book VI

Brian L. Porter

Copyright (C) 2018 Brian L. Porter

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover Design byhttp://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated to the memory of Leslie and Enid Porter Sleep sound, Mum and Dad.

Acknowledgements

I always owe a debt of gratitude to one particular lady when I write any of the Mersey mysteries and Last Train to Lime Street is no different to those that have gone before it. So, my thanks go to my friend, my researcher and proof reader, Debbie Poole, who has spent many hours driving around Liverpool and its suburbs in search of and checking locations for the book. She was joined on this venture by her friend Dorothy (Dot) Blackman, who became her erstwhile assistant researcher and joined her on her ongoing investigative 'Car Trek' around the city. The names kind of go well together don't they, Poole and Blackman. I can picture these two intrepid ladies motoring around the city like a pair of latter-day Jane Marple's, sticking their noses into all sorts of unlikely places as they searched for relevant places for 'body dumps' and other necessary scenarios for the books. My undying gratitude goes to them both.

As always, I owe thanks to Miika Hannila at Next Chapter Publishing, not just for his ongoing belief in, and support for the Mersey Mystery series, but for helping to advance the series' exposure by having negotiated a contract to have the books made into audio books, having been approached by one of the UK's largest producers of the media. It's yet another exciting step forward in the development of the series.

I have to add my thanks to all my readers, who this year have helped book three in the series, A Mersey Maiden, to win the prestigious 'Best Book We've Read All Year Award' from Readfree.ly. I was delighted to have won the award and very grateful to receive the beautiful glass trophy that came with it.

Of course, I always save my dear wife Juliet to last when writing my acknowledgements. She puts up with innumerable hours of me being 'incommunicado' as I sit engrossed by my story and characters who do tend to almost take over my life as the books progress. Her support is unwavering and she is always my first and fiercest critic, correcting me if she thinks I'm going 'off-track' with any of my stories. I couldn't do it without her.

To the people of Liverpool.

As I was about to start working on Last Train to Lime Street, my researcher/proof reader, Debbie Poole came across a poem which kind of sums up how many people whose origins may lie on that great city that stands proudly on the River Mersey feel about the place. Although the original poet is as far we can ascertain, unknown or anonymous, I have recreated it here, and willingly give credit to the poet.

Liverpool

Of all the cities in the world,

London, Paris, Rome,

You won't find any finer,

Than the one that I call home,

She is a part of who I am,

My flesh, my blood, my bone,

When you are born a scouser,

You'll never walk alone

Looking out across the Mersey

Her three graces steal the show

You won't find any finer

No matter where you go

She's changed a bit since I was young

Time does that to a place

But she never lost her magic

I'm still held in her embrace

She has a style all of her own

Its seen on every street

You can hear her in the voices

Of the people that you meet

And wherever your life takes you

All the world around

She's there on every jukebox

With her distinctive Mersey sound

The Beatles and The Searchers

And of course. the Merseybeats

Gerry and the Pacemakers

A sound straight from her streets

The Iron Door on Temple Street

I remember way back when

And of course The Cavern Club

It was swinging there back then

We'd go dancing in The Grafton

The Rialto and Coconut Grove

At supper time a pan of scouse

Would be waiting on the stove

Looking smart in brand new kecks

With grease to style your hair

You'd stand under Dicky Lewis

And hope she'd meet you there

A day out over the water

Was as far as we would stray

We'd watch the Punch and Judy show

New Brighton for the day 

Windswept on the Mersey

As the quay and I did part

But I knew I'd be returning

So I left behind my heart

With two very fine Cathedrals

Her skyline has been blessed

She also has two football teams

Much better than all the rest

Everybody loves the footy

Whether red or Blue

Both our teams are dynamite

We fetched home a cup or two

Laughter was born in this city

Our humour is unique

With Sir Ken Dodd and Mickey Finn

Even bleak times weren't that bleak

This place has launched a thousand ships

And she's built a fair few too

Her Liver birds watched over

Every vessel passing through

Everybody loves a bevvy

In this place that I call home

We love to let our hair down

And we don't do it alone

Whether after work or Friday night

Or of course, after the game

We'll raise a glass together

We all love that just the same

From the Albert Dock to Scottie Road

From The Echo to the Philly

I love every single inch of her

I don't care if that sounds silly

The old and new, the been and gone

Where else would I want to be?

From now until my dying day

It's Liverpool for me.

Anon

Introduction to the series

Welcome aboard Last Train to Lime Street, the 6th instalment in what began as a single standalone novel, with A Mersey Killing. Such was that book's success however, that the decision was taken to begin a series of books featuring Detective Inspector Andy Ross, Detective Sergeant Izzie Drake and their colleagues on the fictional Merseyside Police, Special Murder Investigation Team. This elite squad is brought in to solve what appear to be extra-difficult or mysterious killings in the large metropolitan area covered by the Merseyside Police Force. Of course, much of their work is concentrated in and around the city of Liverpool and in creating the characters that populate the books, in particular Ross and his team, I decided to make them as 'real' as possible by basing a great deal of their personalities and personalities of members of my own family, as recalled from my younger days as a boy in Liverpool, and those who have read A Mersey Killing will realise why I had to use my memories of them as they were in the 1960s in order to make things work.

When the second book in the series, All Saints, Murder on the Mersey, performed equally as well as the first, and book 3, A Mersey Maiden, won a 2018 Book of the Year Award, it looked as if the characters were doing a pretty good job.

They were followed by the equally successful, award-winning A Mersey Mariner and A Very Mersey Murder, and believe it or not, by then, some of my characters were attracting fan mail of their own, as I received a number of communications from readers who have their favourite characters and seem to have developed attachments to them and their lives and actions, much as TV viewers often do with the characters in their preferred soap operas. Newlywed Detective Constable Derek McLennan watch out, you have a female fan following!

As always, my thanks go to the people and the city of Liverpool, without whom none of the Mersey Mysteries could exist.

Author's note to my American readers – English/American Spelling/Grammar

It has occasionally been mentioned by my U.S. readers that the spellings and grammar in the Mersey Mysteries is, in their minds, incorrect. I must remind you that although we share a language, our usage of it differs greatly from one side of the Atlantic to the other. Being English, my books are therefore written in English as spelled and spoken by those of us on my side of the Atlantic and I am aware that this can be quite confusing to those in the USA. We also tend to use different forms of grammar as well, but please be aware, these do not constitute errors. They are simply the way we speak and use the English language here in the United Kingdom.

Chapter 1

The Wedding

Saturday, 15th December 2005 would long live in the memory of Detective Constable Derek McLennan. It was, after all, his wedding day and as he and his bride, nurse Debbie Simpson walked out of the Cotton Exchange Building on Liverpool's Edmund Street into the crisp winter sunshine, having tied the knot in front of their families and friends, Derek considered himself the most fortunate man in the world. He and Debbie had met when he was hospitalised after being shot while attempting to foil an armed robbery of a jewellery store during his off-duty hours. Now, he stood nervously, wearing a brand new navy-blue three-piece suit specially bought for the occasion, while Debbie was dressed in a beautiful, cream strapless, knee length silk dress, with a lace overlay. She wore a Chantelle Lace bolero over her dress, which she could remove for the reception, letting her feel like she was wearing a different dress. In her cream, 3-inch stiletto peep-toed shoes to match her dress, Derek thought she looked like a fairy tale princess. Her ensemble was topped by a waist length veil, removable for the reception, held in place by a simple tiara. She carried a small bouquet of her favourite flowers, cream and pale lemon Gerbera Daisies and Carnations. Debbie had a nice surprise for Derek for later, too. Her slim legs looked stunning in ten denier stockings, (he didn't know they were stockings of course), which were topped off with a lacy blue garter. She planned to make their wedding night very special for him.

All too quickly, the happy couple had exchanged their vows and were promptly declared man and wife, to the delight of their small group of guests who applauded as Derek kissed his new wife in time-honoured fashion.

Debbie had been one of the team of nurses who had helped Derek in his return to health after being operated on to remove the bullet that had lodged in his chest. As he endured the inactivity forced upon him by his time in hospital, she had spent many of her off-duty hours sitting and talking to the young detective until, almost inevitably, romance blossomed between the young couple and by the time Derek was discharged from hospital he had faced his biggest fear to date; proposing to the pretty young nurse who had stolen his heart. He later confessed to his colleague, D.C. Lenny (Tony) Curtis, that he was more afraid of being rejected by Debbie than he was when confronting the armed robbers, unarmed, on the day he was shot.

Following the wedding, the happy couple and their guests, including their families and most of Liverpool's Specialist Murder Investigation Team, headed for the reception at the Adelphi Hotel, where Tony Curtis, his closest friend on the squad, delivered the traditional best man's speech. Some of the team had expected Curtis to produce a flippant and jocular speech that fitted in with his usual daily persona, but instead, Curtis delivered a masterful and almost tear-inducing speech that focussed on his friend's dedication to duty, his willingness to put himself in the firing line to protect society in general and his colleagues in particular. Much to Derek's surprise and embarrassment, Curtis made a great and impassioned reference to Derek having received the Chief Constable's Commendation for bravery following his selfless attempt to foil the jewellery store robbery, finally leading to an injection of humour by saying,

“I've seen some weird and whacky ways of guys trying to meet the girl of their dreams, but Derek just had to take it to the nth degree. I mean, who else goes out and gets themselves shot just so he can meet a gorgeous, sexy nurse and fulfil almost every man's fantasy?”

This was greeted by a round of polite laughter with Derek, seated beside his best man, managed to surreptitiously, playfully thump his best friend's thigh in a successful attempt to shut him up. Derek's ploy worked for a moment, until his best man delivered his final embarrassing fact relating to the groom.

“Of course, we all know just how committed Derek is to the job, don't we? Who else would stand in a back alley, snogging a sergeant, just to provide cover for a spot of covert surveillance?”

Curtis was referring to their last case, when Derek and the squad's on-loan German detective, Sofie Meyer had played the part of a courting couple in an impromptu attempt to obtain a visual sighting into the rear of their suspect's home while the rest of the team converged on the front. Derek still blushed when he recalled Meyer saying, in a voice not to be denied, “Kiss me Derek.” Debbie had laughed when he'd related the incident to her later, telling him how brave he was and how proud she was that her husband-to-be was so dedicated to his job that he'd risk a slap from his fiancée in order to catch a criminal. For a minute, he'd thought she was serious, but then her face crumpled in laughter and Derek joined in, still slightly embarrassed by the whole thing.

Finally, Tony Curtis came to the end of his speech, wishing the happy couple a long and happy life together. As he sat down, the assembled guests gave him a rousing round of applause, and, unusually for him, he blushed. Truth be told, he'd been absolutely terrified at the prospect of delivering his best man's speech and was relieved it was over and that he hadn't managed to make a fool of himself.

As soon as he was seated, and the applause died down, Derek leaned across to him and whispered in his ear, “Thanks a lot mate. I'll fucking kill you later, shall I?”

Curtis laughed and replied, “What else did you expect when you asked me to be your best man?”

“True. I should have known you wouldn't be able to resist putting the knife in and making me look a right pillock.”

“Ha-ha,” Curtis laughed. “Lighten up man, they loved it, and you are the luckiest copper in Liverpool. Debbie's a real cracker mate. I envy you, and that's a fact.”

Smiling, Derek turned to his friend, shook his hand and said in a heartfelt voice, “Thanks, Tony. I mean it. From the day I joined the squad, you've always had my back.”

“Aw, shut up, man. You do the same for me and everyone else on the team. That's why we work so well together.”

Soon afterwards, with all the speeches over, and before the dancing began, Debbie's father, John Simpson stood up and asked everyone to join him at the hotel's main entrance, where he announced, a special present awaited Derek and Debbie. Nobody had noticed when Debbie's brother, Neil, had quietly left the room while Tony Curtis had been making his speech. It was his job, arranged by him and his father, to bring the surprise present to the front of the hotel. As Derek, Debbie and their guests dutifully gathered at the Adelphi's entrance, a quizzical look on their faces, a gleaming, black, beautifully restored Ford Zephyr 6, Mark III, familiar to fans of the old TV show, Z-Cars, pulled up right in front of the entrance, and out stepped Neil Simpson. Debbie's father placed a hand on Derek's shoulder, and said to his new son-in-law, “We know you love classic cars, Derek, and you know Neil earns a living restoring old vehicles, so we thought you and Debbie might like this.”

“It's for me? I mean us?” Derek beamed with delight.

“All yours, son,” said a smiling John Simpson. “Enjoy it.”

Neil walked up to Derek, shook his hand and handed him the keys to the Zephyr.

“All the best to you both,” he said as Derek took possession of the keys to the finest wedding present anyone could have given him.

“Thank you, Neil, and you too John. God knows how much it must have cost you to restore her, but she's beautiful.”

“Only two owners since she was first registered in 1965,” Neil said, proudly. “It was a pleasure doing her up for the two of you.”

“Are you happy to be seen in this old thing, Debbie?” Derek asked as his wife stood smiling beside him.

“Of course I am, you twit,” she replied. “I told Dad and Ian how you're mad about old cars, and they planned all this without a word to me, but just look at it. It looks like it's brand new. How could anyone not want to be seen in it?”

“Here's a set of keys for you too, Sis,” Neil said as he presented a second set of keys to his sister. “Just don't fight over who's going to drive it now, will you?” he laughed.

“No chance of that Neil. Derek will be using it more than me. It's got one of those old-fashioned column change gear sticks. Not my thing really. I'll stick to my little old faithful mini, thanks.”

Debbie's brother laughed, and then, beckoned by Derek, he joined his brother-in-law and together they proceeded to take a quick drive to Lime Street station and back, finally driving around to the hotel car park, where they parked the car for the time being.

“Will you take care of it while we're on honeymoon?” Derek asked as he parked his wonderful wedding present from his in-laws.

“Of course,” Neil replied. “It'll be waiting for you when you get back from Majorca.”

“Thanks, Neil, for everything. I couldn't have wished for a better present, or a bigger surprise. Debbie knows I love these old cars, and if anything proves how much your sister loves me, it's that she suggested this to you.”

“She thinks the world of you, mate,” Neil told him. “Thinks the sun shines out of your arse, she does. I'm sure I don't have to tell you to take care of my little sister, do I?”

“You've got no worries there. She means the world to me,” Derek assured him.

“I kind of realised that from the way you look at her. I really hope you'll both be truly happy together, Derek, and if you get any trouble from the car, you let me know, okay? Don't be going to no garages or service stations, promise?”

“I promise,” Derek replied. “I wouldn't dream of letting anyone else handle her.”

“Good, that's settled then. We'd better get back to your reception before Debbie thinks we're run away together with the Zephyr.”

The two men, both ardent car enthusiasts, laughed together as Derek locked his precious car and the two of them returned to the wedding reception.

Before long, the clock approached the time for the happy couple to make their way to the airport to catch the flight that would carry them to their honeymoon destination.

One by one, Derek's colleagues came and wished the couple happiness and prosperity. D.I. Andy Ross and his wife Maria were first to wish them well, followed by Detective Sergeant Izzie Drake and her husband, Peter. They were soon followed by Detective Constables Nick Dodds and Samantha Gable, and their German colleague, Sofie Meyer. Derek was delighted that his former colleague, D.C. Keith Burton had accepted their invitation to the wedding. Keith had been shot soon after Derek, while on the job, but his injuries had been more severe and he was currently reassigned to a desk job within police headquarters. It was not known if he'd ever be fit enough to return to his previous role, but they all lived in hope.

Missing from his colleagues in the Specialist Murder Investigation Team were Detective Sergeant Paul Ferris and the team's admin assistant Kat Bellamy, left in charge of the team's squad room. Anything could and often did happen during daylight hours in a city the size of Liverpool, and someone had to man the desks while the wedding was taking place. Ferris was represented by his wife Kareen and his young son, Aaron, who had survived a kidney transplant at a young age and was now growing into a strapping young lad, almost the spitting image of his father. At 9 years of age he could easily be mistaken for a boy at least two to three years older. Kareen hugged both the bride and groom and planted a kiss on Derek's cheek, and Derek hugged her back and made Aaron's day by shaking his hand as he would a grown man and telling him to pass the handshake on to his Dad later. Aaron Ferris positively beamed his pleasure and Debbie McLennan felt a surge of love for her husband for helping to make the lad feel important.

When the 'cab' to take them to the airport arrived, Derek was surprised once more as the car that awaited the couple was a silver Mercedes, driven by no less than a fully-liveried chauffeur, who Derek easily identified as Stan Coleman, the former D.I. and now owner of one of the city's largest cab companies. Coleman had been helpful to the squad in helping to track down the killer in their last major case and now he was here to drive Derek and his bride to the airport to catch their honeymoon flight.

As the car pulled away, accompanied by much cheering and waving, the guests drifted back into the bar where some continued to party into the night. A few left early, ready to fall into bed, happy and tired, knowing that work was never too far away. They were right of course, though nobody knew it at that moment.

Chapter 2

Last Train to Lime Street

Sixty-year old Bob Fraser had grown up with a single-minded ambition. As he proudly replied to anyone who asked the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he'd say, “An engine driver.” From the age of five, he'd been obsessed with trains and the railways in general. Driving a train was his single-minded obsession and nothing would prevent him fulfilling his sole ambition. He'd fulfilled his ambition by the time he reached his twenty-fourth birthday and in the intervening years, he'd driven virtually every type of locomotive seen on the railways of Britain.

Now, he sat at the controls of the last train of the day from Manchester Piccadilly to Liverpool Lime Street. The Type 155 'Sprinter' diesel multiple unit, built by Metro Cammell, and capable of a maximum speed of 75 mph, was one of the most frequently seen locomotive units on the British Railway system and though not quite as large and powerful as some of the locos he'd driven over the years, he was happy in his work and no matter what he was asked to drive, as long as he could feel and hear the vibration and the 'clickety-clack' of the train as it moved along the permanent way, Bob was in his element. In all his years at the controls, he'd never had an accident and was confident he'd reach his impending retirement with his perfect record intact.

Now, just four miles from Lime Street, he had slowed his train as he passed through Mossley Hill station, bang on time. As he cleared the platform he increased speed slightly as he approached the bridge that carried Rose Lane over the railway just a few yards from the station. Suddenly, in the locomotive's headlights, designed for illuminating the tracks directly ahead of the train, his eyes caught a momentary sight of an object falling from the bridge, directly in front of his train. With little or no time to apply the emergency brakes, Bob did so anyway, in a forlorn hope of avoiding disaster. A sickening thud quickly told him he'd been wholly unsuccessful in his attempt. As the train slowed, Bob felt the awful sensation of the thing that has fallen under his train being dragged along under his locomotive for at least a quarter of a mile as he brought the two-coach unit to a halt. Despite not having had a clear view of the falling object, Bob's instincts told him he had just struck a human being and dragged the body along under his train.

As the train came to a halt, Bob took a moment to compose himself before daring to open the driver's door to inspect the damage his train must have caused to the unfortunate person who had fallen under the wheels of his train. As he stepped down from the cab, he was joined by Ray Warren, the conductor, who'd guessed their train had hit an obstacle, and who'd leapt from the rear carriage the second the train stopped. Ray had shouted to the thankfully few passengers on the train to stay on board as he attempted to ascertain the cause of the hold up to their journey. He had to hope they'd obey his instruction.

“What the fuck was that, Bob?” he asked the driver.

Even in the dark, Ray could see that the driver's face was ashen, and it looked to him as if Bob was about to be sick.

“I think we hit someone, Ray,” he managed, before falling silent as he felt the bile rising again. “I saw something fall from the bridge and then felt the thump as we hit it.”

Ray Warren switched on the large torch he was carrying and together the two men began searching the front and the underside of the two-car multiple unit. Seeing blood on the front left side buffer, they proceeded to carry out their search, bent almost double as the torch picked out the darkened underside of the train.

“What's this?” Ray asked, seeing something hanging from the rear bogie of the driving unit.

Peering along the beam of the torch, Bob looked closely and then almost jumped back as his eyes focussed on the unmistakable sight of a human arm, neatly sheered off at the shoulder, sliced neatly by one of the locomotive's wheels.

“Oh fuck,” he exclaimed and with that single expletive spoken, he rushed to the side of the tracks, where he promptly vomited.

Ray left him to it, giving him the respect and dignity that would allow him to do what he had to do without adding any fuss to what a nightmare scenario for the two men was already. As Bob threw up the contents of his stomach, a head appeared from the rear door of the leading carriage and a voice called out, “Hey, what the hell is happening here? Why have we stopped?”

“Please, remain on the train,” the guard/conductor called to the man. “We have an emergency situation to deal with here.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Just, please, stay on the train. We'll give you more information as soon as we can.”

Bob completed his retching and vomiting and stood up, ready to re-join his colleague.

“Are you okay?” Ray asked the driver.

“Not really,” was Bob's reply as the two men resumed their search. Within seconds, Ray felt, rather than saw, something to his left and shone his torch on the clump of bushes that grew beside the tracks.

“Oh, shit,” he blurted out, followed by “Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

In the bushes, they could clearly identify what remained of a human being, obviously thrown to the side when the brakes had been applied and the wheels had momentarily locked, sending it flying up and out from under the rear bogie to land where they now saw it, mangled and bloody.

Bob retched again but his stomach contained nothing more to throw up.

“Get on the blower, Ray. Call it in, now!”

Ray Warren lost no time in calling in to the Northern Rail Operations Centre in Liverpool, who gave orders for him and Bob to remain with the train and ensure no passengers left before the police arrived. The ops centre would notify the British Transport Police immediately and their close proximity to Lime Street would ensure the railway police would be with them in minutes. Responsible for the security and safety of those travelling on Britain's railways the BTP were on the scene within fifteen minutes, a uniformed inspector, a sergeant and two constables arriving in two cars, their sirens and flashing emergency lights dominating the scene around Mossley Hill as they screeched to a halt outside the station.

Within minutes Inspector Dave Hood had assessed the situation and sent for reinforcements. He quickly sent the two constables in the two cars at their disposal to block off both ends of the road where it crossed the bridge and from where the body had apparently fallen to the tracks. Sergeant Billy Carter took charge of the train's interior, and after gathering the smattering of passengers together in the rear unit of the train, he informed them that, with apologies, they would have to remain on board until statements could be taken from the twelve of them. He knew they could in all likelihood offer nothing useful in terms of information, but procedures had to be followed. Once Hood's small emergency response team had been reinforced by the arrival of another four constables, despatched from Lime Street, arrived on the scene, the inspector began his assessment of the situation.

It didn't take him long to realise that the body, easily identified as a male and reduced as it was to a number of separate parts, distributed either beneath the leading locomotive unit or in the bushes beside the track, was lacking one vital thing which might have helped him to arrive at a fast identification. Whoever the deceased might have been, he was completely naked. There wasn't a stitch of clothing to be found, either trapped beneath the train or on what remained of the body in the bushes.

“Do you think it's a suicide, Inspector?” an ashen-faced Bob Fraser asked the policeman after he and his men had made their initial examination of the scene.

Hood seriously doubted that the deceased would have thrown himself naked from the bridge to land purposely in front of the approaching train, so late at night. Plus, his men had found no trace of any potentially abandoned vehicle close by, where the man may have left his clothes if he had decided on such a strange method of ending his life. For now, though, he remained cautious in his reply to the driver.

“I can't say for certain at this point,” he replied. “We can only say for sure that the deceased was male, naked, and is lying in various pieces under and around your train.”

Bob immediately felt sick again at the inspector's rather graphic way of stating the facts but managed to hold it in on this occasion.

“What do we do now?” the driver asked.

“We have your statement, and that of Mr. Warren, so we'll arrange transport home for you both, though we're sure to have more questions for you later. We have brief though bloody useless statements from your passengers too, so the same applies to them. We couldn't expect any of them to have seen anything to be honest. It's a bloody bad business, that's for sure. It's not every day we have a churned-up body under one of our trains, after all.”

Bob's cheeks puffed out as he gagged again and this time he did run to the side of the tracks, where he promptly threw up again.

Once he, Ray Warren and the passengers had been dispatched to their homes or final destinations, Dave Hood, Billy Carter and their men began a further, painstaking investigation of the area, both from the bridge and the rail tracks, without, Hood lamented, finding anything he considered remotely helpful. It wasn't until the arrival of the duty police surgeon, Doctor William Nugent, who carried out a quick examination of the body parts in-situ, that Hood finally realised, almost with relief, that this was a case that might just require some specialist investigation and that he would in all probability be ordered to hand it over to someone better placed to carry out the type of investigation that was now so clearly required.

After all, he thought, suicides don't usually slash their own throats from ear to ear before jumping from a railway bridge to land conveniently under the wheels of a passing train.

Chapter 3

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

The harder he tried to kick his way clear of the cloying morass, the more he felt the power of the undertow that was slowly threatening to pull him down, deeper into the mire. His arms clawed at the side of the trench, yet they were so smooth his grasping fingers failed to find a handhold.

Andy Ross felt as though he was clawing his way out of a deep trench but was being held back by a deep layer of mud that acted like quicksand on his scrambling legs, pulling him ever deeper. Another loud, squelching, sucking noise assailed his ears as his legs sunk another few inches into the all-powerful mud. He was losing the battle and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Buried up to his waist, he continued to try and think of a way out of his dilemma, when he suddenly saw a face appear at the top of the trench, about ten feet above him.

“Derek?” he called out as Derek McLennan's smiling face looked down at him. “Get me out of here, there's a good lad.”

Instead of replying, Derek reached over the lip of the trench and slowly lowered a bottle of champagne, tied to a rope, to his boss.

“What the hell do you expect me to do with this?” Ross screamed in anguish as he sunk another six inches into the mud.

“Drink it, of course, Boss,” Derek eventually replied, grinning from ear to ear.

“Then what?”

“Then we can have a real party”

“Derek, get me out of here, for fuck's sake,” Ross shouted again.

A loud bell rang, almost deafening the floundering man. As he tried to block out the sound by placing his hands over his ears, it sounded again.

The trench shook, almost as if someone had taken hold of him and was shaking him.

“Andy, ANDY,” the voice of his wife, Maria sounded in his ear. “Answer your phone, please!”

Opening his eyes, Andy Ross realised he was coming out of a dream, well, a nightmare really as he reached across to his bedside cabinet, picking up his mobile phone as his fingers made contact with it.

Maria stroked his back as he turned over, aware that her husband had been caught up in a nightmare when he'd begun talking to newly married Derek McLennan in his sleep.

“Ross,” he almost shouted into his phone, relieved to be free of the cloying, sticky mud of the dreamworld. He listened carefully as the voice on the other end of the line spoke and finally responded.

“What time is it, Sergeant?”

On receiving the reply, he looked at his left wrist, confirming that it was indeed two o'clock in the morning, Sunday morning, when he should have been off work, relaxing after attending Derek's wedding the previous day.

“And D.C.I. Agostini wants me there right away?”

“Yes sir, the duty sergeant replied. He said he needs you and Sergeant Drake there asap. Said something about wanting to reopen the railway lines as soon as possible, it being an important commuter line and all that.”

“Have you notified Sergeant Drake yet?”

“Doing that next, sir. I wanted to notify you first.”

“Okay. Tell her to meet me at Mossley Hill as soon as she can, and Sergeant?”

“Sir?”

“Thank you.”

Thinking Ross was being sarcastic, the duty sergeant just mumbled in reply to the inspector, little realising his call had helped put an end to Ross's nightmare, one he'd been having a little too regularly in recent weeks.

Turning to Maria, he spoke quietly, “Sorry love, body on the tracks at Mossley Hill. Nasty one by all accounts.”

“And just why do they want the specialist murder squad out there at this time of night?” his wife queried.

“Seems he fell, or was pushed, naked from a bridge and fell under the wheels of a train. The body's in pieces all over the tracks. The transport police woke Oscar up and he must have decided it was one worth waking me and Izzie for too.”

“You were having that nightmare again, weren't you?” Maria changed the subject quickly.

“Mmm, yes,” he replied. “God knows where it's come from or why I'm having it. I've never had bloody nightmares before.”

“We'll find a way to stop them,” his doctor wife replied. “Can't have you losing sleep when you've important work to do.”

“Right, whatever you say, Mrs. Ross.” he smiled for the first time since waking up.

Ross quickly dressed and felt relieved he hadn't stayed and drunk too much at Derek's wedding reception. Arriving at Mossley Hill station just before 2.45 am, he was pleased to see his partner, Detective Sergeant Izzie Drake already there waiting for him. Dressed in a khaki-coloured parka, jeans and a pair of knee-high boots, with a Russian-style furry hat to combat the cold, Ross thought she looked a completely different person to the svelte, smartly dressed woman who he'd danced with at McLennan's wedding reception just a few hours earlier.

“No comments about the hat, please,” she grinned at him. Despite it being a cold December night, Ross had grabbed the first things he'd come to before leaving the house, and was shivering violently in his black trousers, and turtle neck sweater, topped off by a black leather jacket and a blue Everton Football Club baseball cap.

“Hey, I don't mind what you look like as long it keeps you warm. I'm bloody freezing. Have you had a chance to check out the scene yet?”

“Inspector Hood from the Transport Police gave me a quick sight of the remains, well, most of them anyway. Our friend Doc Nugent is down there already. Apparently, he's been hard at work for over an hour and a half.”

“On his own? Where's his oppo?” Ross referred to the pathologist's regular assistant, Francis Lees, often cruelly referred to as looking more cadaver-like than some of their 'clients.'

“Seems poor Francis had a few too many at the reception. Word is he doesn't drink much, and some joker spiked his drinks liberally with vodka.”

Ross did his best to repress a smile at the thought of poor Francis Lees staggering around in a drunken stupor. He almost wished he'd stayed to see the sight of the poor fellow, staggering around in a drunken fugue, before someone kindly put him out of his misery and took him home. He was surprised when Drake informed it had been their own Tony Curtis who'd ferried the pathologist's assistant home. Ross had a feeling Curtis might have been the prankster who spiked Lees's drinks in the first place and then took pity on the man through some latent feelings of guilt when he saw the state of him. He held his tongue, however, this being neither the time nor the place to discuss the matter.

“Right, well who's he got taking his usual hundreds of photographs?”

“Some dolly bird who he called out of bed. A new assistant to his 'death squad' as Drake laughingly referred to the doctor and his assistants.

“So, let's go see what we've got,” Ross said, and Drake led the D.I. into the station proper, walked to the end of the platform and then down onto the tracks, perfectly safe as Northern Rail had already suspended all trains running through Mossley Hill.

William Nugent, wearing a blue, heavy, quilted and padded coat that appeared to double his already prodigious size, looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps and smiled ruefully as Ross and Drake drew closer to his position, beside the bushes where the majority of the victim's remains lay. Not for nothing was he privately known among Ross's team as 'Fat Willy.' To one side, a young woman, who must be his stand-in assistant was busily taking photographs, using a high-powered flash. Little more than her face was visible, though Ross could tell she was in her twenties and appeared to be an attractive girl, from what he could see. She was slightly built, and he couldn't help thinking that next to Doctor Nugent, almost any member of the human race would appear slim.

“Ah, the good Inspector Ross and the delectable Sergeant Drake,” he spoke in a quiet voice. Here, in the dead of night, following the incident that had brought them together, a whisper could have been heard ten yards away. “Not the best way to follow on from the festivities of Detective Constable McLennan's nuptials, is it?”

“You can say that again, Doc. I've been told it's a bad one.” Ross spoke in an equally soft, almost reverential tone.