Death Track Read online

  The conductor audibly sucked in a long breath. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. We come across all sorts in this job. I’ve seen someone dead after a heart attack. I’ve seen bloody fights. But, a young kid. I’m telling you; this will haunt me until I die. It—’

  ‘Mr Crabtree,’ Whitney said, gently, interrupting him. ‘I understand how awful it must have been. Why don’t you start from where the journey commenced? Take your time and tell me exactly how it all went.’

  ‘Sorry. It was just so … so …’ He held up his hand. ‘The details. I get it. You want the details.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Whitney nodded encouragingly.

  ‘The Newcastle to Lenchester train on a Sunday is usually only a quarter full, if that. Today was no exception. I checked the tickets of everyone on board when we left Newcastle, and then each time new people got on. It’s a fast train and there are only four stops: Leeds, Coventry, Banbury, and Lenchester. Nothing seemed strange.’

  ‘Do you remember checking the victim’s ticket?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. He got on at Coventry.’

  ‘Can you remember who else got on at that station?’

  He paused for a moment. ‘Five people got off and four got on. The young boy, and a woman with two children.’

  ‘Can you remember who got on and off at Banbury?’

  The murderer could have got off the train there. Or did he wait until Lenchester? Either would be possible.

  ‘Actually, no. I didn’t see. I was talking with the driver.’

  Damn. ‘Do you remember who else was in the carriage with our victim?’

  ‘He was alone when I checked his ticket. There were people in there when we left Newcastle, but they got off at Leeds and Coventry.’

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘Three. A young couple in their twenties, who got off at Leeds, and an elderly woman on her own, who left the train at Coventry.’

  ‘What about in the other carriages?’

  ‘This train only has six cars on a Sunday. There were people in all of them. The last one, where the boy was, isn’t one that usually fills up. Most people prefer to sit in the others.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It happens on all trains. The first two or three carriages are the most popular, then the fourth, fifth, and so on until the last one. I think it’s because people are anxious to find a seat as soon as possible, so they can settle. On quiet trains there are rarely many people in the last carriage.’

  Did the murderer know that? It was something they needed to consider during the investigation.

  ‘Leading up to when you found the body, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Once the train had emptied, I did my usual check of all the carriages to make sure everyone was off and to pick up any lost property. When I got to the last carriage, I almost didn’t see him, as he was slouched down against the window and hidden behind the headrest of the seat in front. When I did notice him, I thought he’d fallen asleep. I went to wake him, but before calling out I spotted the blood on his top. I then noticed his half-opened eyes … lifeless … and then I realised he was dead.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘Ran to get Mr Hughes. He took charge and phoned for you lot.’

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already three, and they needed to get to the victim’s family. It was an hour’s drive away, and she didn’t want to ask the Coventry police to handle it. She owed it to the family to be the one to break the news, as she’d seen Hugo. She also needed to arrange for a formal identification of the body.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Crabtree. Do you live locally?’

  ‘Yes. I live in Lenchester.’

  ‘I’d like you to go to the station and make a formal statement. We also need your fingerprints so we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’

  ‘Do you want me to go now?’

  ‘If you can. I’ll radio on ahead and someone will be expecting you.’

  The conductor left, and Whitney called the police station, making arrangements for him to be dealt with when he arrived.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said to Matt once she’d ended the call. ‘We need to speak to this poor kid’s family.’

  Chapter Three

  Sunday, 9 June

  Dr Georgina Cavendish sat back in the chair at the expensive restaurant her parents had insisted on visiting for their twice-yearly lunch. She enjoyed good food, but this particular restaurant was more pretention than excellent cuisine. Even on a Sunday afternoon it was full of Oxford’s glitterati, and reservations had to be made months in advance. Unless you were her father, of course, who had successfully operated on the owner’s son, saving his life, which meant he could eat there whenever he wanted.

  ‘I know the Vice Chancellor of your university. Would you like me to have a word about you failing to get the post you applied for?’ Her mother sat opposite, making her usual Vivienne Westwood statement in a terracotta pleated skirt and white pinstripe shirt with lace trim.

  ‘No thank you, Mother,’ she said, picking up her glass and taking a sip of the excellent Smith Woodhouse Vintage Port her father had ordered with their dessert.

  ‘Why ever not? I’ve told you many times, it’s not what you know but who you know in this life.’

  ‘I’m happy staying as a senior lecturer.’

  Her mother glanced at her father, who was staying uncharacteristically silent.

  ‘Really?’ her mother said.

  ‘I wasn’t at first, especially when I found out who was offered the position. However, I’ve since realised it was for the best, as it means I can continue working with the local police, as well as undertaking my research and supporting the students.’ Why did she feel like she was making excuses, even though it was the truth? She’d been angry at first, having never been turned down for anything in the past. But she meant what she’d said. She had the best of both worlds, and wouldn’t change it.

  ‘And why is that a preferred option from being an Associate Professor?’ her father asked.

  ‘I enjoy putting theory into practice. I work with a good team of police officers, especially DCI Walker.’

  ‘Georgina, I fail to see how working with police officers can be as fulfilling as what you do at the university. Admittedly, being an academic can’t be compared with surgery or international law, but it’s a good career option for someone of your ability,’ her father responded.

  Did he ever listen to himself? Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing his attitude affected her.

  ‘It’s extremely fulfilling. What’s better than using my knowledge to help prevent murderers from getting away with their crimes?’

  ‘Well, at least one of my children is high-flying,’ her father said, not answering her question.

  George tensed. He was referring to her younger brother, who was also a surgeon. She’d planned to do the same, but her medical career hadn’t lasted long, thanks to her aversion to blood. She’d then briefly considered law, following in her mother’s footsteps, but decided against it once she’d discovered forensic psychology.

  ‘Edward, stop being so negative towards the girl. She’s doing the best she can,’ her mother said. If only her words didn’t come across as being patronising.

  ‘Maybe she should settle down and have a family,’ her father said.

  It was like they’d forgotten she was sitting there.

  ‘Well, she can hardly do that now she’s split from that delightful young man she was seeing. I was so hoping for some grandchildren.’

  They were referring to Stephen, who she’d been seeing for a while last year. It didn’t turn out well. But that wouldn’t matter to them. He came from an exceptionally privileged family, who were distantly related to aristocracy. They’d have forgiven him almost anything to have those connections.

  ‘Mother, the delightful young man to whom you refer, cheated on me. Not only that, he’
d had a vasectomy, so he was never going to have any more children.’

  ‘Who are you going to bring to your brother’s wedding?’ her mother asked, seeming oblivious to her comment.

  Not only was her brother an eminent surgeon, but he’d found a suitable partner. A paediatrician with a family who had all the right credentials, too.

  George hadn’t met her future sister-in-law, but she knew exactly how she’d be. To quote Whitney Walker, she’d be posh and typically stiff-upper-lip English. Exactly how Whitney categorised George. They’d moved past that stereotype and were now friends.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find someone to bring,’ George said.

  ‘Hmmm,’ her mother said. ‘I’m not sure finding someone is entirely appropriate. Your partner has to be suitable for such an occasion.’

  ‘Trust me, Mother. I do know how to behave, and the person I bring won’t show the family up.’ She surreptitiously glanced at her watch, willing the lunch to be over.

  ‘What research are you undertaking at the moment?’ her mother asked.

  ‘I’m writing a paper on working with the police as a forensic psychologist, and how it aided in the arrest of the twins who carried out the Campus Murders. You would have seen the case reported in the media.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating,’ her mother said.

  ‘I fail to see how’s that going to contribute to the field,’ her father stated in his usual overbearing manner.

  She could always count on him for the put down.

  ‘Well, for a start it—’

  ‘May I take your plates?’ a waiter asked, interrupting her as he approached their table and leaned in to retrieve the plate in front of her father.

  ‘Leave it,’ he snapped, his tone icy. ‘We’re in the middle of a conversation.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ The waiter stepped back and stood a few feet from them.

  ‘Was there any need to speak to him like that?’ George said through gritted teeth, angered by her father’s behaviour.

  ‘I will not tolerate rudeness.’

  George leaned back in her chair, thankful she only had to meet up with her parents twice a year. It was more than enough. Her father was so full of his own self-importance, he failed miserably to be empathetic to those around him in any way, shape, or form. Not that she excelled on the empathy front. She knew that. But she wasn’t bombastic and rude.

  Her mother, on the other hand, let most of this pass her by. Considering she was a highly sought-after international human rights lawyer, when it came to family, she was off on another planet.

  ‘Edward, he was only trying to do his job,’ her mother said.

  ‘And as I’ve said before, Fleur, it’s not acceptable for someone to interrupt without a by your leave.’ He turned his head to where the waiter was standing and clicked his fingers. ‘Now you may take the plates.’

  As the waiter came forward, George took a look. He was around her age, mid-thirties, tall with curly blond hair. As she was checking him out, he glanced up and his blue eyes locked with hers. He gave an almost imperceptible wink, and she averted her gaze, embarrassed at being caught out.

  After he’d left, she turned to her mother. ‘What case are you working on at the moment?’

  ‘I can’t tell you too much about it, because it’s confidential. But let’s just say I’m hoping we can extricate a young woman from the Middle East and bring her over here.’

  ‘I look forward to hearing all about it when you’re able to tell us more,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll probably see it in the media before we next meet.’

  And of course, her mother wouldn’t ever think of telephoning to keep her up to date. Sometimes George felt she was out with virtual strangers.

  ‘What about you, Father? Any new cases with famous people?’

  ‘None I can talk about. Especially as you’ve now started consorting with people who might not realise the importance of keeping one’s council.’

  ‘I’m certainly not going to tell everybody the ins and outs of your private patient list. And irrespective of that, I trust the people I work with on the force. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the loo.’ She took the white linen napkin from her lap, placed it on the chair, and left the table.

  She was annoyed with herself for getting angry. It never happened, other than when she was with her parents. She skirted around the tables. The restaurant was still full, despite it being late into the afternoon. As she headed down the corridor leading to the ladies’ loo, she accidentally walked into someone.

  ‘Sorry.’ She glanced up and saw it was the waiter.

  ‘Don’t be. It was my fault,’ he said, a soft Irish lilt to his voice.

  ‘You don’t have to show deference to me, I’m not my father.’ An embarrassed laugh escaped her lips, taking her by surprise.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ she said, feeling duty-bound to make an excuse for her father’s behaviour.

  ‘I get it. I’m just a waiter and should know my place.’

  He had her father nailed.

  ‘No, of course he doesn’t think that.’ She caught his eye and noticed it twinkling. ‘Yes. That is his view. But it’s not mine.’

  ‘That’s good to know. I’m Ross.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘George,’ she said as she shook it, surprised at how his hand enveloped hers, making it seem small, which it most certainly wasn’t.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, George. I haven’t seen you in the restaurant before.’

  ‘I’m sure you can’t remember every person who eats here.’

  ‘If they looked like you, I would. You have an incredible jaw line.’

  She frowned. Was that a compliment? It certainly wasn’t one she’d heard before.

  ‘Thank you. I won’t keep you any longer. I don’t want you to get into trouble.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you.’ He grinned. ‘Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me sometime?’

  Was he asking her out on a date? It sounded like it. She hadn’t been on one since finishing with her ex, and there had already been enough said about him that lunchtime. Maybe she should go. First impressions of him were favourable. She glanced across to where her parents were seated and imagined their response if they found out she’d agreed to go out with their waiter. That swayed her. How could she say no?

  ‘Yes, I’d love to.’ She opened her bag, pulled out a business card, and handed it to him. ‘Here are my contact details.’

  He took hold of the card and stared at it. ‘I look forward to it, Dr George.’ He flashed a smile in her direction and headed back into the restaurant.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday, 9 June

  ‘Come on. Let’s get this over with,’ Whitney said to Matt as they stood outside the large double-fronted Victorian house belonging to the parents of Hugo Holmes-Reed. She rung the bell, and the door was opened by a woman in her late thirties wearing running gear.

  ‘Mrs Holmes-Reed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m DCI Walker from Lenchester CID and this is DS Price. May we come in?’ She held out her warrant card.

  ‘What’s it about?’ A worried look etched itself across the woman’s face.

  Having to tell a family their loved one was dead was bad enough, but when the victim was a child, it was on a whole different level. It never got easier, no matter how many times she had to deliver the news. She’d learned not to let her emotions show, even though at times it was hard not to break down and cry. But it wasn’t her grief. She owed it to the victim’s parents to remain in control. It wasn’t easy, though, when she considered how her daughter, Tiffany, wasn’t much older than Hugo.

  ‘We’d rather discuss it inside, please.’

  The woman opened the door and ushered them into a narrow hallway. ‘What is it?’ she repeated once they were inside.

  ‘Is your husband in?’ Whitney asked.

&
nbsp; ‘He’s in the sitting room. We’ve just got back from a run. I was just about to have a shower.’

  ‘Perhaps we can go in there, so we can talk to both of you together.’

  The woman led them into the room, where a man about the same age as his wife was sitting, drinking from a water bottle.

  ‘It’s the police. They want to speak to us,’ Mrs Holmes-Reed said anxiously.

  Her husband, a tall wiry man with closely cropped hair, jumped up from his seat, a guilty expression crossing his face. ‘On a Sunday? Surely this could’ve waited. We can speak in my office, next week. I’ve already explained, I had no knowledge of the embezzled funds. It doesn’t have to involve my wife.’ He went to move towards the door.

  ‘Mr Holmes-Reed, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but it isn’t why we’re here. Please, sit down.’

  ‘I don’t want to sit.’ He glared at her.

  ‘It’s about your son, Hugo,’ Whitney said, gently.

  ‘Hugo? He’s at school. I took him to the station myself, this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, there was an incident on the train and—’

  ‘An incident? Is he hurt? What happened? I told you he wasn’t old enough to travel on the train by himself.’ Mrs Holmes-Reed’s voice cracked.

  ‘He was attacked on the train. His injuries were too severe for him to survive. I’m very sorry for your loss,’ Whitney said, maintaining eye contact with the woman.

  Mrs Holmes-Reed stared at her for several seconds, her face expressionless. Suddenly she let out a piercing, anguished scream. Her husband, who had turned deathly pale, rushed to her side and held her in his arms. He guided her to the sofa, and they sat down. Whitney and Matt sat opposite on single armchairs.

  ‘Can you tell us what actually happened?’ Mr Holmes-Reed’s voice was stilted, like he was trying to stay in control.

  ‘It’s too early to say conclusively, but we are investigating,’ she said.

  ‘I want to see him,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. We will need you to make a formal identification of Hugo.’