Night Train to Murder Read online

  ‘Just a predator, from outside our reality. There are always things trying to get in and get at us. I used to belong to a group that specialized in tracking down such dimensional intrusions, and then shutting them down with extreme prejudice.’

  ‘Is there any underground group you haven’t worked for?’

  ‘There must be a few I haven’t heard of,’ I said.

  Penny leaned in closer, lowering her voice further. ‘I’ve been thinking, Ishmael … Could there be a psychic travelling with us in this compartment, hidden behind some mental shield and invisible to our eyes?’

  I shook my head firmly. ‘I’d have spotted the psychic fallout.’

  ‘But would you expect there to be any if the enemy psychic is really powerful?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, just a bit defensively. ‘I don’t have that much experience with psychics.’

  ‘You said you’d worked with them!’

  ‘Only occasionally.’

  ‘Like who?’ said Penny.

  ‘No one you’d have heard of,’ I said.

  ‘Like who, exactly?’

  ‘Lucky Pierre, Fair Weather Frankie, Mad Mental Maggie …’

  ‘Those are not real names,’ said Penny.

  ‘They’re code names,’ I said patiently. ‘Psychics prefer to hide behind carefully constructed false personas. Like Mr Nobody. The point is, every psychic is always going to be different from every other psychic.’

  ‘So all your vast knowledge about these people is basically useless?’ said Penny.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can still spot one, no matter how many mental shields they put in place. Like Mr Nobody, in the café. Trust me, Penny; there’s no psychic hiding anywhere in this compartment. I’d know.’

  Penny nodded, reassured, and went back to her magazine. I went back to looking at the other passengers. There were only four of them, apart from Sir Dennis. Three business types – two men and a woman, sitting well apart from each other and working diligently away at their laptops – and the official bodyguard.

  The nearest businessman was wearing a suit of elegant cut and style, suggesting he was intent on making a good first impression. His tie had a perfectly square Windsor knot, and the points of the handkerchief protruding from his top pocket looked as if they’d been pressed to within an inch of their lives. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and was handsome enough in a cultivated sort of way. The look of a man who went to a lot of trouble to look as if he hadn’t gone to any trouble to look that good. Dark hair, dark eyes, a dimpled chin and a firm mouth.

  And yet he couldn’t seem to concentrate on his work. He kept looking up from his laptop and staring off into the distance, as though he had something else on his mind. Something he was really looking forward to.

  The other businessman, on the other side of the aisle, had to be in his early fifties at least and apparently didn’t give a damn what kind of impression he made. His suit was faded and worn, and he’d pulled his tie loose so he could breathe more easily. He had hardly any hair, and his deeply lined face had the lost, defeated look of someone who’d given up fighting his corner because he knew it wouldn’t make any difference. He also seemed to keep losing interest in his work. He’d tap in a few words, pause, tap in a few more, and then stop and stare at nothing. Except sometimes he’d look across at Sir Dennis and frown, before looking away again.

  The businesswoman was the youngest of the three. An attractive Indian woman in her early twenties, she wore her hair scraped back in a tight bun; her only jewellery was a single nose ring. She worked furiously at her keyboard, frowning hard as she concentrated. Her City suit was sleek but practical, suggesting some kind of junior executive. She had the look of a woman who took her job very seriously.

  She stopped typing and looked thoughtfully at Sir Dennis. Perhaps she recognized him from the news or remembered the scandal Penny had alluded to earlier. And then she lowered her eyes and went back to her work with uninterrupted enthusiasm.

  I took my first good look at the man I’d been ordered to protect. Sir Dennis appeared to be in his late forties, smartly dressed and impeccably turned-out. His thin, sharp face made me think of a dyspeptic vulture, a resemblance heightened by his fierce eyebrows and receding hairline. He had a nervous, unsettled air, but that was only to be expected now that such a plum job had dropped in his lap.

  I thought about who might want him dead … A politician who’d spent as much time in the trenches as Sir Dennis would be bound to have made enemies, some of whom had to be killingly jealous of his new appointment. And then there were all the colleagues and rivals who’d had their noses put out of joint because they thought they should have got the job. There’s nothing like feeling overlooked and slighted to turn even the most straightforward of minds to thoughts of revenge and retribution. Add to that all the various nations and groups who stood to benefit from the confusion caused by the sudden death of the new Head of the Psychic Weapons Division, and it was a wonder to me that Sir Dennis had actually reached Paddington in one piece.

  He was currently working his way through a thick file of papers, with more dogged perseverance than enthusiasm, presumably familiarizing himself with the details of his new job. So he could at least sound as if he knew what he was talking about, when he turned up for his briefing at the Ministry of Defence Headquarters in Bath. Unless his security clearance was a lot higher than his background suggested, a lot of what he was reading had to be coming as one hell of a surprise, but so far he seemed to be taking it all in his stride.

  Finally, there was Sir Dennis’s bodyguard. A large and imposing figure, he sat stiffly beside his charge, wearing a suit that looked as if he’d tried it on for the very first time that evening. He had the square face and close-cropped hair of a military man, and the look and bearing of someone who could take care of himself, along with anyone else who needed taking care of. His gaze moved steadily back and forth around the carriage, checking for anybody who might pose a threat. I did my best to appear ordinary and harmless.

  I studied the bodyguard carefully, trying to work out where he was carrying his gun. There was no obvious bulge under his jacket, but he could have had a weapon tucked into the back of his belt, or even in an ankle holster. His hands were big enough to qualify as lethal weapons in themselves, and he looked like the kind of man who’d enjoy using them.

  The train finally moved off in a series of jolts, and I checked my watch. We were departing bang on time. I tensed as the train pulled out of the station, gathering speed. If there had been any attempt at sabotage, a bomb on board or some arranged malfunction, this would be the best time to trigger it. But the train accelerated smoothly away and nothing happened. First hurdle safely passed.

  I made myself relax a little. I couldn’t keep worrying about every possibility, or I’d wear myself out long before we got to Bath. I shouldn’t even be needed, with psychics watching over the train and a bodyguard sitting right next to Sir Dennis. I let my gaze drift casually across the three businesspeople again, just checking to make sure that everything about them was as it should be.

  The younger man had given up on his laptop and was staring off into the distance. His mind was definitely on something other than his work. Could he be planning an attack on Sir Dennis? He didn’t look particularly dangerous, but then professional killers rarely do. I looked across at the other businessman, who had also lost interest in his laptop. He was frowning into the darkness outside his window, as though considering some difficult decision. Possibly how best to get to Sir Dennis. Except … how could he hope to get away with it afterwards? The young businesswoman was almost attacking her laptop, pounding away at the keys as though trying to intimidate them into producing good work. If anyone here had the determination to be an assassin, it would be her.

  If there really was a killer in the compartment, these three had to be the most likely suspects. But they all just sat where they were, doing nothing out of the ordinary. God forbid they should make t
his easy for me.

  I looked past Penny, immersed in her magazine, and stared out of the window. Already we were leaving the lights of London behind, and moving on into the darkness of the countryside. Heading through the night like a ship at sea, bringing light into the dark but always taking it with us. Even with my more-than-human vision, it was hard for me to see anything outside the train. Just the occasional lit window in some isolated house, or a flare of headlights from late-night traffic on a country road.

  A railway carriage had to be a really difficult location for anyone planning a murder. A brightly lit enclosed space, with little room to manoeuvre, a target almost impossible to get to without being noticed, and no obvious means of escape afterwards. But if the Organization had intelligence that a professional hit was on the cards, then the killer must have worked out some way to get the job done.

  How would I get to Sir Dennis? Poison in his food or his drink … But the bodyguard would have been briefed about that. A man with a rifle lying in wait, somewhere along our route? No, we were moving too quickly for even the most experienced sniper to be certain of a clear shot, and there wouldn’t be time for a second. It was always possible the killer could burst through the door behind me, shoot Sir Dennis, and run back down the train to hide among the other passengers …

  I looked up sharply as I heard footsteps approaching through the vestibule. I’d just started to turn when the door hissed open and the railway guard came in. A bulky middle-aged fellow in a neat uniform, with a pleasant face and carrying voice.

  ‘All tickets and passes, please! Can I please see all tickets and passes!’

  Penny looked up, checked out the guard in his uniform and went back to her magazine. I had the tickets for both of us and handed them over to the guard. He checked their details quickly, while I looked him over. There was nothing about the man to suggest he was anything more than he seemed. He wore his uniform comfortably and performed his duties with the ease of long practice. I kept a careful watch on him anyway. Because what better cover could there be for an assassin than a man with access to everywhere on the train, and what better way to get close to the target?

  I’m old enough to remember when a ticket collector would actually punch holes in heavy cardboard tickets, but this guard just scrawled his initials on the flimsy bits of card, handed them back and moved on down the aisle, calling out his refrain with unwavering good cheer. The three businesspeople handed over their tickets with varying levels of preoccupation, barely glancing at the guard. I got the impression he was used to that. He finally stopped before Sir Dennis and his bodyguard, and it seemed to me that his level of politeness increased appreciably. Presumably, he’d been tipped off about Sir Dennis’s presence when he boarded the train. The railway company would want a VIP of such stature treated with all due deference.

  Sir Dennis didn’t look up from his work. He was far too important to deal with everyday details. The bodyguard handed over the tickets. The guard quickly dealt with them and thanked Sir Dennis by name, hoping for a response, but didn’t get so much as a grunt in return.

  The guard turned around and made his way back down the aisle, easily riding the rocking motions of the carriage. I watched him surreptitiously all the way and listened carefully as the door hissed open and his footsteps retreated back through the vestibule. They were quickly drowned out by the sound of approaching squeaky wheels. The door hissed open again, to reveal a refreshments trolley pushed by a stocky middle-aged woman in a railway uniform, a mess of curly blonde hair crammed under her railway cap. She stopped just inside the door and addressed the quiet carriage with a loud and determinedly cheerful voice.

  ‘Hello, everyone! My name is Dee and I will be your refreshments supervisor for this evening. I can offer you hot drinks and cold snacks! Something to warm the cockles of the heart and reasonably priced treats to comfort the soul of every weary traveller. Ask me for anything! Now, who’d like what?’

  She didn’t wait for a response, just made her way down the aisle, happily listing the contents of her trolley to each of us in turn until we all felt obliged to order something, if only in self-defence. Penny and I took plastic cups of tea, while two of the three businesspeople preferred coffee. The bodyguard refused anything, for himself and Sir Dennis.

  Somewhat to my surprise, Dee all but ignored Sir Dennis in favour of the younger businessman. She stopped her trolley beside his seat and fixed him with her most engaging smile. It was obvious he wasn’t interested, but Dee didn’t let that stop her.

  ‘Come on, darling, there must be something here I can tempt you with. How about a meat pasty or a nice sandwich? We’ve got all sorts! You don’t want to waste away before you get to Bath. At least have a nice cup of tea and put some colour in your cheeks!’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said the businessman. He didn’t even look at her. ‘I don’t need anything.’

  ‘Are you sure, darling? There must be something here you want. How about—’

  ‘I don’t need anything!’ The young man’s voice was starting to rise, and the look he finally shot her was bitingly cold. ‘Nothing at all. Thank you.’

  Dee shrugged and gave up. She had some trouble manoeuvring her trolley back down the aisle, and I got the feeling she was new to her job. If she didn’t learn not to pester people who didn’t want anything, she wouldn’t get the chance to become old at it.

  I studied Dee furtively as she struggled to get all four wheels on her trolley pointing in the same direction. I noticed that she kept her peaked cap pulled well down, half shading her face. Which seemed a little odd for such a determinedly larger-than-life character. I had to wonder whether she might be playing a part, but then why waste the full impact of her character on the businessman and not Sir Dennis? I kept a careful eye on Dee as she backed down the aisle, dragging the recalcitrant trolley after her. And then listened to its squeaking wheels all the way through the vestibule to the next carriage, until I could be sure she wouldn’t be coming back.

  Penny put down her magazine and leaned in close.

  ‘You’ve checked out everyone in the carriage, plus the guard and the tea lady. Do you honestly see any of them as a professional assassin? Anyway, how could they hope to get away with anything in a closed carriage, on a train that’s not stopping anywhere till it gets to Bath?’

  ‘By making Sir Dennis’s death look like an accident,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s the only answer that makes sense. I suppose, theoretically, the assassin could be anywhere on the train … anyone who isn’t us or Sir Dennis.’

  ‘But you think it’s someone in here, don’t you?’

  ‘Has to be,’ I said flatly. ‘It’s all about the access …’

  ‘Then why didn’t the Division advance-book the whole of First Class, so Sir Dennis and his bodyguard could travel alone?’ said Penny.

  ‘Because that would attract attention,’ I said patiently. ‘No one is supposed to know Sir Dennis is travelling on this particular train, remember? They only announced it as a non-stopping express at the last minute.’

  Penny nodded and went back to her magazine. She trusted me to notice all the things that escaped her and alert her as and when she was needed. I just wished I had her confidence.

  Because another idea had occurred to me. What if there was a psychic assassin travelling on the train, unseen and unsuspected behind a mental shield of invisibility? He could suddenly appear in front of his target, kill Sir Dennis, and then disappear behind his shield again until he could hide among the other passengers. Then all he’d have to do was disembark with everyone else at Bath and disappear forever.

  I considered the situation, carefully running through the possibilities. The Division psychics had to be monitoring everyone on the train, looking for just such a mind. But a professional assassin would have allowed for that. He must have a plan in place, something utterly unexpected. The only thing he couldn’t have planned for was me.

  Anyone else, the psychic could read their mind and be pre
pared for them, but while I’d never gone head to head with a really top-level psychic before, I was still confident my defences were strong enough to ensure that what was inside my mind remained mine and mine alone.

  Back in the nineties, I spent some time with the Alien Trespass Bureau. Checking for dimensional doorways and other unnatural incursions, blocking up holes in reality and boarding over the breaches, and kicking out anything that tried to muscle its way in. The Bureau made sure I was taught some basic psychic disciplines, to protect me from outside influences and attacks. And to make sure the Bureau’s enemies couldn’t dig their secrets out of my head.

  My tutor in the devious arts of psychic self-defence was a wonderfully fey old chap called Sewell, who might have had trouble remembering what he’d had for breakfast that morning, but really knew his stuff when it came to the mental battlefield. He would sit in his favourite armchair, his spindly frame hunched in on itself, knitting furiously as he watched me struggle to master the subtle disciplines he was pounding into my head. It helped that once I had them down, they pretty much worked themselves, running constantly in the back of my mind. Sewell told me I was one of his most gifted students, so I hated to think what the others must have been like.

  When we were finally done, he fixed me with his fierce gaze and gave me one last piece of advice.

  ‘Beware the mad minds, my boy, the rogue psychics who think they’re better than us just because they were born with a monstrously powerful gift. They have no remorse, no conscience and no restraints, because they believe the rest of us are only here for them to have fun with. They mess with other people’s lives, and sow dragon’s teeth in the mass subconscious, just because they can. Psychopathic tricksters, giggling in the dark and dancing with the devil. Just for the hell of it. But the really dangerous ones are the ones you never see coming, because they won’t let you. So, my boy … look for things that aren’t there, and listen for things that should be there but aren’t. And get the bastards before they can get you.’