The Railway Viaduct (2 page)

‘A bad one, Inspector. When he hit the water, the man’s head collided with a piece of driftwood. It smashed his face in. His own mother wouldn’t recognise him now.’

‘Was there anything on his body to identify him?’

‘Nothing. His wallet and watch were missing. So was his jacket.’

‘Where is the body now?’

‘In the mortuary.’

‘I’d like to examine it.’

‘It will tell you nothing beyond the fact that he was a young man and a very healthy one, by the look of it.’

‘Nevertheless, I want to see the body this evening.’

‘Very well.’

‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ said Leeming, squeamishly, ‘it’s a treat that I’ll forego. I hate morgues. They unsettle my stomach.’

Colbeck smiled. ‘Then I’ll spare you the ordeal, Victor.’ He looked at Heyford again. ‘There were two men on the barge,
you say?’

‘Actually,’ replied the other, ‘there were three, the third being Micah Triggs. He owns the barge but is very old. His son and grandson do most of the work.’

‘But he was another witness.’

‘Yes, Inspector. He confirmed what the others told me. When they had pulled the man out of the canal, they moored the barge. Samuel Triggs clambered all the way up to the station and caught the next train here to report the crime.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘He knew that Liverpool had a better police force than Manchester.’

Leeming was puzzled. ‘Why didn’t the train from which the body was thrown stop at the viaduct? We did. Inspector Colbeck wanted to take a look at the scene of the crime.’

‘This morning’s train was an express that does not stop at all the intermediate stations.’

‘The killer would have chosen it for that reason,’ said Colbeck.

‘Once he had jettisoned his victim, he wanted to get away from there as swiftly as possible.’ He pondered. ‘So far, it would appear, we have three witnesses, all of whom were in a similar position. Was anyone else there at the time?’

‘According to Enoch Triggs, there were two ladies and a boy on the bank but they fled in fear. We have no idea who they were. Oh, yes,’ he went on, studying one of the statements, ‘and there seems to have been a man there as well but he, too, vanished. The truth is that Enoch Triggs and his son were too busy trying to rescue the body from the water to notice much else.’

‘That takes care of those at the scene of the crime. I presume that you have details of where this barge can be reached?’

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Good. What about the other witnesses?’

‘There
were
none,’ asserted Heyford.

‘A train full of passengers and nobody sees a man being tossed over the side of a viaduct? That’s not an everyday event. It’s something that people would remember.’

‘I’d remember it,’ agreed Leeming.

‘Well?’ said Colbeck. ‘Did you make any effort to contact the passengers on that train, Inspector Heyford?’

‘How could I?’ asked the other, defensively. ‘By the time we were made aware of the crime, the passengers had all dispersed throughout the city.’

‘Many of them may have intended to return to Manchester. It may well be that some people live there and work here. Did it never occur to you to have someone at the railway station this afternoon to question anyone leaving Liverpool who might have travelled on that train this morning?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then we’ll need to meet the same train tomorrow. With luck, we should find at least a few people who make the journey daily.’

‘Wait,’ said Heyford, leafing through the papers. ‘There was something else. Oddly enough, it was the old man who told me this.’

‘Micah Triggs?’

‘He thought the man was thrown from the last carriage.’

‘So?’

‘That might explain why nobody saw it happen.’

‘What about the guard?’ said Leeming. ‘His van would be behind the last carriage. Why did he see nothing?’

‘Because he could have been looking the other way,’ said
Colbeck, thinking it through, ‘or been distracted by something else. It would only have taken seconds to dispose of that body and the last carriage would be the ideal place.’ His eyes flicked back to Heyford. ‘I take it that you’ve spoken to the guard, Inspector.’

‘No,’ said the other. ‘When I got to the station, that train had long since left for Manchester with the guard aboard.’

‘He would have been back at Lime Street in due course. Guards work long hours. I know their shift patterns. All you had to do was to look at a copy of
Bradshaw’s Guide
and you could have worked out when that particular train would return here. We need every pair of eyes we can call on, Inspector. The guard must be questioned.’

‘If he’d had anything to report, he’d have come forward.’

‘He
does
have something to report,’ said Colbeck. ‘He may not have witnessed the crime being committed but he would have seen the passengers boarding the train, perhaps even noticed who got into the carriage next to his van. His evidence could be vital. I find it strange that you did not realise that.’

‘I had other things to do, Inspector Colbeck,’ bleated the other, caught on the raw. ‘I had to take statements from the witnesses then arrange for the transfer of the body. Do not worry,’ he said, huffily, ‘I’ll meet that very train tomorrow and interview the guard in person.’

‘Sergeant Leeming will already have done so.’

‘Will I?’ gulped Leeming.

‘Yes, Victor. You’ll catch an early train to Manchester so that you can speak to the staff at the station in case any of them remember who got into that last carriage. Then you must talk to the guard who was on that train today.’

‘What then?’

‘Travel back here on the same train, of course,’ said Colbeck, ‘making sure that you sit in the last carriage. You’ll get some idea of how fast you go over the Sankey Viaduct and how difficult it would have been to hurl a dead body into the canal.’

Leeming goggled. ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to throw someone out of the carriage, sir.’

‘Simply use your imagination.’

‘What about me?’ asked Heyford. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Several things.’

‘Such as?’

‘First of all, you can recommend a hotel nearby so that Sergeant Leeming can book some rooms there. Second, you can conduct me to the mortuary and, after that, you can point me in the direction of the local newspapers.’

‘Newspapers?’

‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, tiring of his pedestrian slowness. ‘Papers that contain news. People have a habit of reading them. We need to reach as many of them as we can with a description of the victim.’

Heyford was scornful. ‘How can you describe a faceless man?’

‘By concentrating on his other features – age, height, build, hair colour and so on. His clothing will give us some idea of his social class. In short, we can provide enough details for anyone who knows him to be able to identify the man. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, Inspector.’ There was a grudging respect. ‘I suppose I do.’

‘Have you reached any conclusion yourself?’ asked
Leeming.

‘Only the obvious one, Sergeant – it was murder for gain. The victim was killed so that he could be robbed.’

‘Oh, I suspect that there was much more to it than that,’ said Colbeck. ‘A lot of calculation went into this murder. Nobody would take so much trouble simply to get his hands on the contents of another man’s wallet. Always reject the obvious, Inspector Heyford. It has a nasty tendency to mislead.’

‘Yes, sir,’ grunted the other.

Colbeck stood up. ‘Let’s get started, shall we? Suggest a hotel then lead me to the mortuary. The sooner we get that description in the newspapers, the better. With luck, he may read it.’

‘Who?’

‘The other witness. I discount the two ladies and the boy. They’ll have been too shocked to give a coherent account. But there was a man on that bank as well. He’s the person who interests me.’

Ambrose Hooper put the finishing touches to his work then stood back to admire it. He was in his studio, a place of amiable chaos that contained several paintings that had been started then abandoned, and dozens of pencil drawings that had never progressed beyond the stage of a rough sketch. Artist’s materials lay everywhere. Light was fading so it was impossible for him to work on but he did not, in any case, need to do so. What he had achieved already had a sense of completeness to it. The sketch he had made of the Sankey Viaduct was now a vivid watercolour that would serve as model for the much bigger work he intended to paint.

It was all there – viaduct, canal, train, sailing barge, lush green fields, cows and, in the foreground, two women and
a small boy. What brought the whole scene together, giving it life and definition, was the central figure of the man who was tumbling helplessly through the air towards the water, a bizarre link between viaduct and canal. Hooper was thrilled. Instead of producing yet another landscape, he had created a unique historical document. It would be his masterpiece.

Victor Leeming was a walking paradox. The more things he found to dislike about his job, the more attached he became to it. He hated working late hours, looking at mutilated corpses, appearing in court to give evidence, facing the wrath of Superintendent Tallis, having to arrest women, being forced to write endless reports and travelling, whenever he ventured outside London, by rail instead of road. Most of all, he hated being separated for a night from his wife, Estelle, and their children. Notwithstanding all that, he loved being a detective and having the privilege of working alongside the famous Robert Colbeck. Slightly older than the inspector, he had none of the latter’s acuity or grasp of detail. What Leeming could offer were tenacity, commitment and an unflinching readiness to face danger.

He slept fitfully that night. The bed was soft and the sheets were clean but he was never happy when Estelle was not beside him. Her love could sustain him through anything. It blinded her to the patent ugliness of her husband. His broken
nose and jagged features would have tempted few women. His squint would have repelled most wives. Estelle adored him for his character rather than his appearance, and, as he had discovered long ago, the most hideous man could look handsome in the dark. Night was the time for confidences, for catching up on domestic events, for making plans, for reaching decisions and for sharing those marital intimacies that never seemed to dull with the passage of time. Leeming missed her painfully. Instead of waking up in his wife’s arms, he had to go on another train journey. It was unjust.

Over an early breakfast at the hotel the next morning, he had difficulty in staying fully awake. Leeming’s yawns punctuated the conversation. Colbeck was sympathetic.

‘How much sleep did you get last night, Victor?’ he said.

‘Not enough.’

‘I gathered that.’ Colbeck ate the last of his toast. ‘Make sure that you don’t doze off on the train. I need you to remain alert. When you get to Lime Street, buy yourself a newspaper.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it will contain a description of the man we need to identify. Memorise it so that you can pass it on to the various people you question in Manchester.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier simply to show them the newspaper?’

‘No. You must master all the facts. I’m not having you thrusting a newspaper article under their noses. It’s important to look everyone in the eye when you talk to them.’

‘If I can keep mine open,’ said Leeming, wearily. He drained his teacup in a gulp. ‘Is it true that the man’s shoes were missing?’

‘His shoes and his jacket.’

‘I can imagine someone stealing the jacket. It would have his wallet and other things of value in it. Why take his shoes as well?’

‘They were probably of high quality. The rest of his clothing certainly was, Victor. It is no working man we seek. The murder victim dressed well and had a comfortable income.’

‘How much is comfortable, Inspector?’

‘More than we get paid.’

Leeming gave a hollow laugh. He finished his breakfast then checked the time. He had to be on his way. Colbeck accompanied him out of the hotel dining room and into a lobby that was decorated with unsightly potted plants. When someone opened the front door, the noise of heavy traffic burst in. Liverpool was palpably alive and busy. Leeming had no enthusiasm for stepping out into the swirling maelstrom but he steeled himself to do so. After an exchange of farewells with Colbeck, he strode off in the direction of Lime Street.

The first thing he noticed when he reached the railway station was the visible presence of uniformed policemen. Inspector Heyford had obviously taken Colbeck’s strictures to heart. Leeming bought a return ticket to Manchester then picked up a copy of the
Liverpool Times
from a vendor with a stentorian voice. The murder attracted a banner headline on the front page. Colbeck’s appeal for information was also given prominence. There was no mention of Inspector Sidney Heyford. The Liverpool constabulary had been eclipsed by the arrival of two detectives from Scotland Yard. Leeming was glad that nobody in the bustling station knew that he was one of the men dispatched from London. In his present
somnambulistic state, he was hardly a good advertisement for the Metropolitan Police.

The platform was crowded, the noise of trains was deafening and the billowing steam was an impenetrable fog that seemed to thicken insidiously with every minute and invade his nostrils. In the previous year, Lime Street Station had been considerably enlarged, its majestic iron structure being the first of its kind. Leeming was unable to see this marvel of industrial architecture. His mind was on the harrowing journey ahead. When the train pulled in and shed its passengers, he braced himself and climbed aboard. The newspaper kept him awake long enough for him to read the front page. Then the locomotive exploded into action and the train jerked forward like an angry mastiff pulling on a leash.

Within seconds, Victor Leeming was fast asleep.

Inspector Robert Colbeck also spent time at Lime Street that morning, but he made sure that he saw every inch of it, struck by how much railway stations had improved in the past twenty years. It did not have the classical magnificence of Euston, but it had a reassuring solidity and was supremely functional. Even though it was used by thousands of passengers every week, it still had an air of newness about it. Colbeck was there to meet the train from which the murder victim had been hurled on the previous day, hoping that Sergeant Leeming’s visit to Manchester had borne fruit.

Blackboards had been set up along the platform with a question chalked on them in large capitals – DID YOU TRAVEL ON THIS TRAIN YESTERDAY? – and policemen were ready to talk to anyone who came forward. Colbeck watched with approval. Long before the train had even
arrived at Lime Street, however, Constable Walter Praine bore down purposefully on the detective.

‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ he said. ‘May I have a word, please?’

‘Of course,’ replied Colbeck.

‘There’s someone at the police station who refuses to speak to anyone but you. He saw your name in the newspaper this morning and says that he has important information for the person in charge of the investigation.’ Praine rolled his eyes. ‘Inspector Heyford was most upset that the fellow would not talk to him.’

‘Did this man say nothing at all?’

‘Only that you’d got it wrong, sir.’

‘Wrong?’

‘Your description of the murder victim.’

‘Then I look forward to being corrected,’ said Colbeck, eagerly. ‘Any new facts that can be gleaned are most welcome.’

Praine led the way to a waiting cab and the two of them were soon carried along bumpy streets that were positively swarming with horse-drawn traffic and handcarts. When they reached the police station, the first person they met was an aggrieved Sidney Heyford.

‘This is
my
police station in
my
town,’ he complained, ‘and the wretched man spurns me.’

‘Did he give you his name?’ asked Colbeck.

‘Ambrose Hooper. He’s an
artist
.’

Heyford pronounced the word with utter contempt as if it were a heinous crime that had not yet come within the purview of the statute book. In his codex, artists were shameless outcasts, parasites who lived off others and who should, at the
very least, be transported to a penal colony to reflect on their sinful existence. Heyford jerked his thumb towards his office.

‘He’s in there, Inspector.’

‘Thank you,’ said Colbeck.

Removing his hat, he opened the door and went into the office. A dishevelled Ambrose Hooper rose from his chair to greet him.

‘Are you the detective from London?’

‘Yes, Mr Hooper. I am Inspector Colbeck.’

‘I thought you didn’t come from around here,’ said Hooper, looking him up and down. ‘Liverpool is a philistine place. It has no real appreciation of art and architecture. It idolises conformity. Those of us who cut a dash with our clothing or our way of life could never fit easily into Liverpool. I hate towns of any kind myself. I choose to live in the country and breathe in free air.’

Ambrose Hooper was wearing his crumpled white jacket over a flowery waistcoat and a pair of baggy blue trousers. A fading blue cravat was at his neck. His straw hat lay on the table beside a dog-eared portfolio. Some paint had lodged in his beard. Wisps of grey hair stood up mutinously all over his head. Colbeck could see that he was a man of independent mind.

‘I’m told that you believe I am wrong,’ said Colbeck.

‘I don’t believe it, sir – I
know
it.’

‘How?’

‘I was there, Inspector.’

‘At the Sankey Viaduct?’

‘Yes, I saw exactly what happened.’

‘Then why didn’t you give a statement to the police?’

‘Because that would have meant waiting an age until they
arrived on the scene,’ explained Hooper. ‘Besides, there was nothing that I could do. The body was hauled aboard that barge. I felt that it was important to record the event while it was still fresh in my mind.’

Colbeck was delighted. ‘You mean that you went home and wrote down an account of all that you’d seen?’

‘I’m no wordsmith, sir. Language has such severe limitations. Art, on the other hand, does not. It has an immediacy that no author could match.’ He picked up the portfolio. ‘Do you want to know what I saw at the Sankey Viaduct yesterday?’

‘Very much so, Mr Hooper.’

‘Then behold, my friend.’

Untying the ribbon, the artist opened the cover of the portfolio with a flourish to reveal his work. Colbeck was flabbergasted. An unexpected bounty had just fallen into his lap. What he was looking at was nothing less than a detailed photograph of what had actually happened. Having read the statements from the three witnesses on the barge, Colbeck had built up a clear picture of the situation in his mind’s eye. Hooper’s work enlarged and enlivened that mental image.

‘A perfect marriage of artistic merit and factual accuracy,’ said Hooper, proudly. ‘This is merely a rough version, of course, hastily finished so that I could offer it as evidence. I’ll use this as the basis for a much larger and more dramatic painting.’

‘It could hardly be more dramatic,’ opined Colbeck, scrutinising the work. ‘You are a man of talent, sir. I congratulate you.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’ He pointed to the three small figures in the foreground. ‘I moved the ladies slightly but this is more or less the position they were in. Not that they stayed
there for long, mark you. When that poor man suddenly dived over the parapet, Aunt Petronella jumped back as if she’d seen a ghost.’

Colbeck was surprised. ‘She was your aunt?’

‘Not mine – the boy’s. At least, that’s what I assumed. They were complete strangers to me but I always like to give people names if I include them in a painting. It lends a sense of familiarity.’ He indicated each one in turn. ‘This is Hester Lewthwaite – this is her son, Anthony – and here is his maiden aunt, Petronella Snark.’ He gave a sly chuckle. ‘I suppose that if you’ve preserved your virginity as long as she had, the sight of a man descending on you from a great height would be quite terrifying.’

Colbeck could not believe his good fortune. Ambrose Hooper had provided the best and most comprehensive piece of evidence he had ever received from a member of the public. It answered so many important questions and saved him so much time. He was pleased to note that Micah Triggs had been so observant. The victim did appear to have been thrown from the last carriage. He remembered his own description of the victim.

‘Ah,’ said Colbeck, jabbing a finger at the man in the centre of the painting. ‘This is where I got it wrong. He’s wearing a jacket.’

‘And a pair of shoes,’ added Hooper.

‘Are you absolutely sure that was the case?’

‘That’s the kind of detail an artist doesn’t miss. The shoes were gleaming. They caught the sun as he plummeted down. They’re only minute in the painting, of course, but, if you look closely, you’ll see that the shoes are definitely there.’

‘They are indeed.’

‘I’m a stickler for precision.’

‘This is remarkable, Mr Hooper,’ said Colbeck, shaking him warmly by the hand. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

‘We also serve who only stand and paint.’

‘You’ve made our job so much easier. What a blessing that you happened to be in the right place at the right time!’

‘I have a habit of doing that, Inspector. At first, I used to put it down to coincidence but I’ve come round to the view that I’m an agent of divine purpose. God
wanted
me to bear witness. I daresay it was also true of Aunt Petronella but she was unequal to the challenge.’ He looked at the tiny figure of the murder victim. ‘What I’d like to know is how he brought off that wonderful conjuring trick.’

‘Conjuring trick?’

‘Yes,’ said Hooper. ‘When he left the train, he was wearing a jacket and a pair of shoes. How did he get rid of them by the time that the police arrived on the scene?’

‘There’s no mystery there,’ said Colbeck with a wry smile.

‘No?’

‘He clearly had some assistance.’

Victor Leeming talked to every member of staff he could find at the station. By the time he finished, he felt that he had spoken to half the population of Manchester and all to no avail. Ticket clerks, porters, the stationmaster, his assistants, the engine driver, the fireman, even those who sold newspapers at Victoria Station were asked if they had seen anyone suspicious around the same time on the previous day. In effect, they had all given him the same answer – that it was difficult to pick out any one person from the sea of faces that passed in front of them. Least helpful of all had been the guard
in charge of the train on which the murder had occurred. His name was Cyril Dear, a short, skinny, animated individual in his fifties who was highly offended even to be approached by the detective. As he talked to him, his hands were gesticulating madly as if he were trying without success to juggle seven invisible balls in the air.

‘I saw nobody getting into the last carriage, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I’ve got better things to do than to take note of where every passenger sits. Do you know what being a guard means?’