Night Train to Murder Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Simon R. Green

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter

  One: The Man on the Stair

  Two: People Watching

  Three: Who’s Been Messing With My Head?

  Four: What’s Really Going on

  Five: Trapped in the Pressure Cooker

  Six: A Shot in the Dark

  Seven: All Kinds of Loose Ends Taken Care of

  A selection of recent titles by Simon R. Green

  The Ishmael Jones mysteries

  THE DARK SIDE OF THE ROAD *

  DEAD MAN WALKING *

  VERY IMPORTANT CORPSES *

  DEATH SHALL COME *

  INTO THE THINNEST OF AIR *

  MURDER IN THE DARK *

  TILL SUDDEN DEATH DO US PART *

  NIGHT TRAIN TO MURDER *

  The Secret History series

  PROPERTY OF A LADY FAIRE

  FROM A DROOD TO A KILL

  DR DOA

  MOONBREAKER

  NIGHT FALL

  The Nightside series

  JUST ANOTHER JUDGEMENT DAY

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UNCANNY

  A HARD DAY’S KNIGHT

  THE BRIDE WORE BLACK LEATHER

  * available from Severn House

  NIGHT TRAIN TO MURDER

  Simon R. Green

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2019

  in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2019 by Simon R. Green.

  The right of Simon R. Green to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8917-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-664-7 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0362-5 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.

  When people look at all the stars spread out across the night sky, it never occurs to them to wonder if some might be looking back. And the idea that one of them might fall to earth must seem even more unlikely. But not everything in the heavens belongs there, and sometimes the endless dark throws a rebel angel down to earth.

  Or, to put it another way, in 1963 an alien starship came howling down from the outer reaches with its superstructure on fire and crashed in an English field. The impact cracked the ship wide open and killed every member of its crew but one. This sole survivor was rewritten by the ship’s transform-ation machines, made human right down to his DNA, so he could pass unnoticed until help arrived. But the machines were damaged in the crash and wiped all memories of who and what I was, before I was human.

  I was born an adult, stumbling dazedly across a ploughed field in the middle of nowhere. Help never came, so I had to make my own way in the world, learning how to be human by observing those around me, while hiding from the ones who would kill me for not being one of them.

  I might have thought it was all a dream or a delusion, except for the fact that I haven’t aged a day since 1963.

  Down the years, I’ve worked for any number of secret and underground groups, because they have the best resources to keep me hidden. I stayed with each group until they started to notice there was something different about me, and then I moved on. Always being careful never to leave a trail.

  These days I work for the Organization, solving mysteries of the weird and uncanny, protecting people from all the monsters that walk among them, unseen and unsuspected.

  Now read on.

  ONE

  The Man on the Stair

  There is a world most people never see.

  A hidden world of intelligence agents and secret operatives, psychic assassins and lambs in werewolves’ clothing. There are gods and monsters, but there are also those of us whose job it is to keep a lid on them.

  Even if the left hand doesn’t always know who the right hand is spying on.

  I arrived at Paddington railway station late on an autumn evening, with my chosen partner and partner-in-crime, the lovely Penny Belcourt. A black taxicab dropped us off at the top of the steep slope heading down into the station, and I gave the driver a tip nicely calculated to be just big enough that he wouldn’t complain, while not so large that he’d remember me. Penny linked her arm through mine and we made our way down to the main concourse. Late as it was, the wide open space was packed with all kinds of people in a hurry to be somewhere else.

  I picked a spot well out of the main flow of traffic and looked casually around, taking in the general scene without being too obvious about it. People crowded together before the destination boards, or wandered in and out of the shops, or formed long queues in front of the fast-food outlets, killing time in their various ways … and not one of them so much as glanced at anyone else, because, after all, they were British. Every now and again, a recorded announcement would cut through the general clamour, triggering a sudden mass rush for the lucky few.

  I couldn’t help smiling. I’ve always had a fondness for crowds. They make such excellent places to hide in.

  Penny tugged at my arm to get my attention, and I looked at her fondly. A slender presence with a sharp face, bright eyes and a flashing smile, Penny was wearing a fashionable two-piece outfit in black-and-white squares, with knee-length white leather boots and a floppy white hat crammed down on her piled-up night-dark hair. Penny and I work well together, solving mysteries and catching killers. I provide the outsider’s viewpoint, and she supplies the human touch.

  Together, we’re a match for anyone, or anything.

  ‘Did we really have to rush across late-night London like mad things, just so we could meet the Colonel here?’ said Penny.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Penny sniffed loudly. ‘And he didn’t even give you a clue as to what could possibly be so urgent?’

  ‘The Colonel was more tight-lipped than usual,’ I admitted. ‘He merely stated that we were needed, gave me a time and a meeting place, and then rang off before I could raise any objections. All of whic
h suggests a last-minute emergency, and that once again you and I are about to be dropped in the deep end, without even the loan of a lifejacket.’

  Penny sighed. ‘I hate these rush jobs. We always end up getting blindsided by something awful we never even see coming.’

  ‘To be fair,’ I said. ‘That does tend to describe most of our missions. It comes with the job, and the territory.’

  ‘Please don’t be reasonable, darling,’ said Penny. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  The Colonel is the middleman, the man with the message, the only point of contact between me and the Organization. I do know his real name, but I only ever think of him as the Colonel. I’ve never got on well with authority figures, but as long as he continues to provide me with missions that matter, that allow me to save lives and help protect the world I’ve made my home, I put up with his military manner and he puts up with my studied insolence.

  ‘Why did we have to get here so early?’ said Penny, just to make it clear she held me equally responsible for her current mood. ‘The Colonel won’t even be here for at least half an hour.’

  ‘I was hoping for an hour’s grace,’ I said. ‘To give me enough time to properly check out his chosen meeting place. But that’s London for you. There are those who say the general pace of traffic hasn’t changed since the horse-drawn carriage. At least now you don’t have to be quite so careful about where you put your feet.’

  Penny looked at me. ‘You don’t trust anyone, do you, Ishmael?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Apart from you, of course.’

  She smiled at me sweetly. ‘Nice save, darling.’

  ‘Careful planning and relentless paranoia are what’s kept me alive and undetected all these years,’ I said. ‘I’ve lived among people for half a century, but I can never allow myself to forget that I’m not one of them.’

  ‘Do you really think they’d be so upset if they ever found out the truth about you?’ said Penny. ‘People love aliens in movies!’

  ‘Only because they aren’t real,’ I said. ‘Humanity has no idea of some of the appalling things they share their world with, and I’m not going to be the one to break the bad news to them.’

  ‘All right!’ said Penny, smiling bravely. ‘I shall now look on the bright side! Because one of us has to, and it clearly isn’t going to be you. So! A late-night dash through London, to take a mystery train to an unknown destination, with possibly the fate of the entire world resting upon our shoulders! We lead such romantic lives, Ishmael.’

  I broke off from studying my surroundings to smile at her.

  ‘You and I have very different definitions of that word.’

  ‘But just think of all the strange places we’ve been, and all the weird things and people we’ve encountered! I should write up our cases, like Doctor Watson did for Sherlock Holmes. I could always change the names.’

  ‘The Organization would not approve,’ I said. ‘Anyway, our cases are very definitely stories for which the world is not yet ready.’

  Penny nodded reluctantly. ‘It would be nice, though … to have someone we could talk to, about all the amazing things we’ve seen and done.’

  ‘We have each other,’ I said. ‘And that’s more than I ever thought I’d have.’

  She hit me with her bright smile again. ‘You say the sweetest things, darling. Even if I do have to prompt you occasionally.’

  And then we both looked round sharply as a VIP came striding through the crowd, barely giving the common people time to get out of his way. You could tell he was important because he was surrounded by a smaller crowd of hard-faced men, there to make sure no one else got anywhere near him. Security guards, with watchful eyes and hands that never strayed far from concealed weapons. The VIP didn’t so much as glance at any of the everyday people he barged past. Some of them stopped to stare after him, as though they thought they recognized him from somewhere but weren’t sure where. Which suggested a politician, rather than a celebrity.

  The real giveaway was the uniformed police officers patrolling the station. They didn’t so much as glance at the VIP, or the waves he was making; they were far too busy studying the crowd for potential threats. Only politicians got that level of protection. The VIP reached the ticket barriers and was quickly waved through, bowed on his way by people set in place to ease his passage through the world.

  ‘I’m sure I know that man …’ said Penny. ‘Yes! That’s Sir Dennis Gregson.’

  ‘A name that means absolutely nothing to me,’ I said.

  ‘Only because you refuse to live in the real world with the rest of us,’ said Penny. ‘Those of us who actually follow the news could tell you that Sir Dennis is one of those politicians that nobody likes, but somehow keeps on being picked for safe seats. He finally got caught in a scandal some time back; for a while, you couldn’t turn on the television without seeing him smiling unconvincingly at a pack of reporters, and saying something evasive.’

  ‘Nothing to do with us, then,’ I said. ‘Let’s go check out the meeting place. Make sure it meets our secret-agent requirements.’

  ‘The Hipster Bar,’ said Penny. She shuddered delicately. ‘What kind of name is that for a railway café?’

  ‘A pretentious one,’ I said. ‘Which does not bode well for the kind of dining experience we can expect.’

  ‘Where is it?’ said Penny, looking in every direction but the right one.

  ‘Above and behind us,’ I said patiently. ‘You didn’t think I just stopped here by accident, did you?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck, sweetie.’

  The Hipster Bar stood at the forefront of the level above the main concourse, along with all the classier stores and eating establishments. An escalator led up to the café, but when you wanted to get back down again, you had to use the stairs at the rear. Which was typical of the businesses on the upper level: easy enough to get to, but once they’ve got your money, they don’t give a damn. I stood at the foot of the escalator and considered the café’s gleaming exterior. It looked very upmarket – and very up itself. The kind of place that would happily sell you fifty different kinds of coffee, but couldn’t manage a single decent snack to go with any of them.

  I turned my back on the escalator, to give the crowd one last careful scan. Because something about the station didn’t feel right.

  ‘What are you looking for now?’ said Penny.

  ‘Crowds fascinate me,’ I said. ‘Just people being people, leading lives I’ll never really understand. Because I’m always on the outside, looking in.’

  ‘After all these years?’ said Penny. ‘That’s sad, Ishmael. Haven’t you earned the right to feel human?’

  ‘You were born into your world,’ I said. ‘I was thrust into it. You grew up to be you, one day at a time; I had to hit the ground running.’

  ‘So you never had a childhood,’ said Penny. ‘That explains a lot, actually.’

  ‘Everything I know about being one of you, I had to learn by observing other people.’

  ‘How do you think the rest of us manage?’ said Penny. ‘Honestly, Ishmael, what’s brought on this existential crisis all of a sudden?’

  ‘The crowd,’ I said. ‘People being people so … effortlessly.’

  ‘They’re just commuters, going home from work.’

  ‘I’ve often thought I’d like to try a regular nine-to-five job,’ I said wistfully. ‘It might help me learn to fit in. I might even enjoy it.’

  ‘You only think that because you’ve never had one,’ said Penny. ‘We have something better in our lives; we have purpose. Every case we take on is important; everything we do matters. You have no idea how rare and marvellous that is.’

  I acknowledged defeat by turning away to study the destination boards. Penny followed my gaze.

  ‘I told you we should have packed a few suitcases. Or at least put on some heavy coats. The Colonel could be sending us anywhere.’

  ‘If we’d needed to pack for a long journey, he would have told me,�
�� I said patiently. ‘There’s no guarantee we’re actually going anywhere. We could just be here to meet someone when they arrive. Or intercept them before they can board their train.’

  ‘The Colonel didn’t tell you anything about this case?’ Penny frowned. ‘That’s not like him.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I said. ‘Which means that either he couldn’t tell me, because no one has told him, or he was told, but didn’t want to tell me because he knew I wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘You have a devious and suspicious mind,’ said Penny.

  ‘Experience is a harsh mistress, and carries a really big stick,’ I said solemnly. ‘Come on; let’s go grace the Hipster Bar with our presence. Make sure it’s down to our standards. The Colonel will be here soon.’

  The interior of the Hipster Bar turned out to be all gleaming white walls, plastic furniture, and shiny metal surfaces offering distorted reflections. Steam hissed loudly from the over-elaborate coffee-making machinery, while scattered customers perched uncomfortably on their stylized chairs, as though afraid the seats might collapse under them or throw them off. The tables were spindly affairs, that looked as if they might collapse under the weight of more than one coffee cup. There was no sense of good cheer, nothing approaching ambience, and the piped music was just minor hits from the sixties, orchestrated to take all the flavour out. Nothing to encourage anyone to linger, which was probably the point. Just pay your money, drink your overpriced coffee and get the hell out – because there’s always another sucker on the way.

  The handful of customers sat quietly at their separate tables, staring at their coffee as though they wished it was something else. They weren’t there to enjoy themselves, just passing the time till they could be somewhere else. I went over to the brightly shining counter and asked the bored teenage girl on duty for two teas. She looked at me as if I had Tourette’s and indicated the board behind her with a sullen jerk of her head. The long list of coffees featured exclusive roasts, strange blends with exotic names and enough additives to make sure you wouldn’t sleep for a fortnight. I gave the girl my best hard stare.