Murder on the christmas.., p.12
Murder on the Christmas Express, page 12
“Be really careful. You won’t know what’s underneath the snow. Go slowly, and follow the prints exactly, so you’ll know how deep it goes.”
Oli rubbed his hands together and grinned. He was loving this. Being stranded on a derailed train in the snow was high adventure to him. Roz wondered for a moment what it would be like to be in her twenties again. Then shuddered. She’d rather be forty-nine and give as many fucks as she’d had in the last year. Which was none.
“Do you know how many passengers remain on the train?” she asked.
Oli took a form out from underneath the bar. “Beefy filled this in last night—hard to be sure but some got off at Edinburgh, a few more at Glasgow, so we think that leaves seventeen passengers.” So, Roz thought, eighteen with the stowaway.
“Only three members of staff?”
“There’d usually be more, but with the cancellations, it was only us willing to be in Fort William if we can’t get back tomorrow. Beefy would much rather be in London, but he has some family up here, and Bella’s are in Tulloch. I’ll be stranded though.”
“There are worse places to be stranded,” Roz said and was surprised to find she meant it.
Bella strode into the club car, rubbing her hands and stomping her feet. Snow fell from her boots onto the carpet. “Hi everyone. I’m Bella, your driver. Or was. I’d like to apologize right now for us being stationary. None of us wants to be in this situation. I’ve contacted the engineers and they’ll be here when they can, but it’s going to take a while, I’m afraid. I’ve had word that our rescue will be delayed as we are currently unreachable by road and there’s a tree on the line near Tulloch. I’ve told them we’re a priority, as there are children and older people on the train—”
“Don’t stir yourself on my account,” Mary called out. “I’m having the best time.” She pointed to the bottle of port on their table. “Tony raided our suitcase. We were keeping this for the family Christmas, but I dare say we can find another when we eventually get home.”
Roz’s heart was thumping as she thought of Heather, Ellie, and the baby. “Is there no way we can get them here any quicker? Get us to the front of the queue?”
“I also said we had celebrities on board, so that should expedite our rescue. If you also tweet about us being stuck, I’m sure train wheels will turn quicker. But you didn’t hear that from me.” She placed her finger over her lips. “While they last, food and soft drinks are complimentary. So drink up, sit tight, and stay away from the front of the train.” She moved toward the door, stopping as she exited to say, “And enjoy the view!” She hurried out before anyone could stop and ask awkward questions.
Roz looked around the cabin and clapped her hands. The excited chatter faded and people looked her way. “Is anyone hurt?” she asked.
“I bashed my head,” Grant said.
“Have you put ice on it?”
Grant jabbed a finger over to Oli. “He’s run out of ice, so I had to go out and get some snow and pack it in here.” He placed the now-wet tea towel back on his head and winced.
“Did you black out at any point?” Roz asked.
Grant carefully shook his head. “No.”
“And do you have a headache?”
“I hit my head,” he snapped. “’Course I have a headache.” He took a swig from a half-empty beer bottle and grimaced.
“Roz is just trying to see if you have a concussion, lad,” Mary said. Her voice was sharp.
“And it could well be,” Roz said, standing up again. “As you were drinking before and, apparently, after you banged your head, usually I’d be sending you straight to A&E. Alcohol is a bad plan if you have a brain injury. But seeing as we’ve no idea when we’ll get going again, let alone to a hospital, you should rest, stay awake, and lay off the booze.”
Grant’s laugh was sardonic.
Reminded by the mention of the hospital, Roz got out her phone, but there were no new messages from Ellie, and no word at all from Heather. What if the situation had gotten worse? She remembered what her Googling had uncovered: that eclampsia could lead to coma. She felt adrenaline and panic at the last conversation she’d had with Heather. What if it really was their last, and that was how they’d left it?
She had to stay busy. It was the only way she’d get through this.
She spotted the dried vomit on Grant’s shirt. “Were you sick?”
“That’s not mine,” Grant said with disgust.
“Often go around with someone else’s vomit on you, do you?”
“Meg wasn’t feeling good,” Aidan said. “She was sick, a bit. A bit got on me. Not long before the crash.”
“Where is she now?” Roz asked.
Grant shrugged and did not meet her eyes. From the guilty looks on his and other faces, something had happened earlier.
“Did it not occur to you to go and find her after the crash?” she asked him. “Or even right now?”
“Thought you said I should rest.”
“Fine. I’ll go. I’ll make sure Beck is okay as well, but I’ll need your key cards in case they’re asleep or injured.”
Ayana gave her the card for her and Beck’s room, while Grant plucked his from his pocket. “You’re welcome to her,” he said. He then lay back down on the banquette. Not the ideal way to stop himself going to sleep, but Roz didn’t feel like telling him again.
Roz plonked the homemade goodies she’d retrieved from her cabin on a triangular table and said, “Help yourself—handmade whisky and raisin tablet, and spiced shortbread. Keep you going till breakfast.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Roz knocked on Beck’s door. “We need you up and about, Beck.” She tried to keep her voice light and airy, with just a bite of cold.
“Go away.” Beck’s voice was muffled.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. We need everyone in the club car.”
“You can’t make me.”
“True.” Roz thought for a moment. “But I can make it really annoying for you to stay.” She then started singing “Mull of Kintyre” at great volume and with little attention paid to the right lyrics or being in tune. “Join in, why don’t you?”
It took less than a minute for Beck to open the door. Her hair was all over the place, her cardigan buttons in the wrong holes. “You could’ve just let me sleep. I wasn’t hurt. The side of the bunk kept me in place.”
“But then you wouldn’t be able to see the sunrise.”
Beck looked out of the window into the dark. “Yeah. Nice.” She then trudged away.
“Did you win, by the way?” Roz called after her.
“Of course, I did,” she said without turning back.
Roz was about to knock on Meg’s door when Phil and the kids came past. He somehow seemed more worried than he had been ten minutes before. “Sally’s not angry with me, is she?”
“Why would she be?”
“Just checking,” he said, then hurried toward his hungover wife. More than railcars needed decoupling on this train.
She knocked softly at first. “Are you all right, Meg?”
No sound from inside. She knocked again, louder this time. “Are you in there? It’s Roz, the one who suggested the quiz yesterday. I’m checking everyone’s all right. Can I come in?”
No answer.
Roz placed the key near the handle but it didn’t open. It must be locked from the inside.
“Everything okay, madam?” Beefy said, coming down the corridor toward her. He was so big, he blocked out most of the light.
“It’s ma’am,” Roz said automatically, used to telling new recruits how to address her.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Beefy said, confusion and contrition crossing his face.
“No, I…oh, never mind. That was from my days in the police. I’m just a civilian now but haven’t gotten used to it yet.”
“Bella said you were in CID. Big respect.” He did a kind of salute, large hand held parallel to his face.
“Thanks, although wait to see if I deserve respect first. It isn’t automatically due to everyone. Anyway, to answer your question, no.” She pointed into the cabin. “Meg isn’t answering, and it’s locked from the inside.”
“Hello?” Beefy said, standing close to the door. “Miss Meg?”
More silence.
Roz felt a familiar freezing fear. The intuition that something was very wrong behind a closed door. She turned to Beefy. “Is there some kind of override to lift the latch?”
“Normally there would be,” Beefy said. “But some of the train’s electrical systems are out because of the crash. Bella’s trying to sort them.”
“Can you break through the lock to get in?”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
When Roz nodded, Beefy sized up the door. “I’ll give it a go.” He breathed in, chest expanding, then barged at the door. It gave a little, but didn’t open. Beefy rubbed his shoulder. “Tricky without a run up. Do you really think she’s in there?”
“I hope not, as she’s not answering. But it’s locked from the inside and no one else has seen her.”
Beefy nodded, his worry lines deepening. He then threw his full bulk at the door, crashing through into the room and steadying himself with a hand on the bathroom wall. Roz couldn’t see past him, but his gasp then the keening sound he made told her everything.
“You’d better step out, Beefy.” Roz placed her hand gently on his outstretched arm. He was trembling.
“I don’t understand,” he said, stumbling back into the corridor. He turned to Roz, as if she could explain and make everything okay.
But she couldn’t.
Meg was lying on the floor, body twisted. Blood congealed under her head. Roz could only see one eye from where she stood, but it was swollen and open, unblinking. Roz didn’t need to fully enter the room to know that Meg was dead.
She had to check though. It was protocol, in case a life could be saved, but it was also human, a need to make sure nothing else could be done. Taking a large, careful step, Roz stood on the one bit of floor that wasn’t covered in clothes or cosmetics. She crouched, very slowly, and reached for Meg’s nearest hand. The skin still had warmth to it. And no matter how long Roz waited with her fingertips pressed against Meg’s inner wrist, she was never going to feel a pulse. She went to check the carotid artery, then stopped. Meg’s throat was red with what looked like multiple scratch marks around her neck, as if she’d been trying to pry someone’s hands away. Someone had tried to hurt her. And they had succeeded.
A wave of grief crashed through Roz. The poor girl had lived for other people’s likes and had never found a way to live for herself. Roz thought, then, of Grant, and how he had treated Meg. Grief shifted into anger, making bile rise and her heart burn. Even if he hadn’t been the one to kill her, she knew in her gut he’d tried to, if only her spirit.
Beefy was sobbing silently next to her. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Even now there was hope in his voice that she’d contradict him.
Roz nodded.
“But, how?” He looked from Roz to Meg and back again. “The derailment couldn’t have killed her, could it? It wasn’t that bad.”
“I don’t know.” But she could guess.
“You’ll find out, won’t you?” Beefy put his big hands together in the prayer position. Tears tobogganed down his face.
“It’s not my job anymore.” This was a clear case of not her circus. She could walk away from this and leave it to coppers who were still being paid.
“But if it wasn’t the crash, do you think she was murdered?” He nodded toward the body but couldn’t look at Meg without crying.
“It’s a possibility that can’t be discounted,” Roz said. She got straight back into her patter like a comfy old coat.
His hand went into a fist. “I bet it was him. That cocky twat, Grant.”
“Speculating isn’t going to help.” Although he was probably right. If it wasn’t an accident—and it didn’t look like one with these marks on her neck—then Grant was the most likely suspect.
“Please help her.” Beefy’s voice had grown as small as his body was big.
“It’s not my place anymore, Beefy.”
“But you’ve been trained, and you’re here right now. And you were watching her last night. I saw you.”
If Beefy had been watching her, he’d have been keeping an eye on Grant too. He may know something that could help the investigation.
But it wasn’t her case. “All I can advise you to do is seal off this cabin so evidence isn’t compromised, and put Grant in another cabin, if you can. It’s not likely he’ll run off, probably catch hypothermia if he did, but we need to make sure he’s here, ready to be questioned, when the police arrive.”
“But that could be ages. I was once stuck on a train in the Highlands for thirty-four hours. And that was without there being a crime on board. Then once they get here, everywhere will be searched, and we’ll be taken back for questioning. It could take days.”
Panic seared through Roz. She couldn’t be that long. Heather needed her. She couldn’t spend Christmas Eve and possibly Christmas Day on the night train. She took out her phone. The signal was low, one bar, but still there. But there was no update on Heather or the baby’s condition. The doctors must have done their morning rounds by now, surely?
“Besides,” Beefy continued. “If it wasn’t Grant, then the killer is someone else on the train. And I’d rather you found them before anything else happened.”
He was right. The killer needed to be identified and detained. And maybe, if she had sufficient evidence, the police wouldn’t keep the passengers too long. It was a long shot, but what else was she going to do? Have flashback after flashback? There was only so much pacing she could do in a tiny cabin, and she only had two hands to wring. She had no choice but to find out what happened to Meg.
Roz switched into professional mode. It was easier than letting herself feel, and far more productive, although rage often fueled her investigations. Gave her energy to do what she had to do. “Dial 999,” she told Beefy. “We need an ambulance and investigative team for a probable crime scene. Ask them how we can place Grant under temporary cabin arrest without being charged with kidnap. I also need hygienic gloves, shoe covers used for cleaning or in the galley, and ziplock bags if you have them.” Roz thought of the possible problems with investigating, how it could compromise the case. “Order everyone apart from Grant to stay in the club car.” In a normal investigation, she’d have help. Someone with a knowledge of the law and an eye for detail that she could team up with. “And could you ask Craig to come here, please?”
Beefy nodded, his eyes glazed with shock. He hurried down the corridor, sniffing.
Standing in the entrance, she scanned the room. In her time in CID, she’d developed her own technique for examining crime scenes, in person or in photos. She looked at each part of the cabin as if it were a jigsaw puzzle that she had to solve. She was glad to use that method now. It added another layer between her and the horror.
Meg’s handmade decorations were strewn across the room. A sad, broken paper doll lay on her twisted torso. A piece of mistletoe was stuck behind the picture on the wall, and the rest was near the body. There was blood on the edge of the sink, possibly where Meg had hit her head. Clothes and cosmetics were thrown everywhere, on the bed, on the floor, in the sink, in the shower area. The train derailment could have done that, she supposed, but the room was in such a mess that it could have been trashed during an attack. Or perhaps someone searched the room after Meg died.
Various pots had fallen onto the floor. It was a roll call of fancy creams that Roz had heard of—Crème de la Mer, Dr. Barbara Sturm, Augustinus Bader, Estée Lauder, Chanel—and more that she hadn’t, including Advanced Snail 92, Atropa eye drops, Anese Calm Your Tits Boob Mask, and Le Tush Clarifying Butt Mask. A tub of Lush’s Silky Underwear talcum had spilled on the floor, making the room smell of jasmine and vanilla. The edge of the powder had a mark—a curve and several lines. Not enough to suggest a clear footprint. A compact mirror had broken. She then counted the mirror shards scattered like stars across a sky of fallen clothes.
Roz centered her attention on Meg’s body. She was still fully clothed, and Roz felt an instinctive relief at that. As well as the marks on her neck, the purple bruising on her upper arm and the yellow band around her wrist, there was slight discoloration on Meg’s jaw that hadn’t been there earlier. Roz knew she should never assume, and she’d never have said so out loud when on the force, but she’d put money on there being other signs of violence on her body.
She took out her camera and started taking pictures. First of the room and close-ups of every item in it, then the door and window. Finally, she took photos of Meg: full-length photos of her body, crops of her bruises and injuries. Strangely, the one image that made her want to cry was one of Meg’s hand and curled fingers almost touching her cracked phone, as if trying to use it even after death. One evening in her near company—not even that—five minutes of eavesdropping and mild cyberstalking had showed Roz that Meg lived her life through a screen, and that was what she still reached for in death. Or maybe there was something on the phone that could help the investigation.
Roz turned then to possible cause of death. She obviously couldn’t determine exactly, but she took photos of signs that Meg had died of asphyxia or respiratory failure, with possible sudden cardiac death. The whites of her eyes were dashed with petechiae. Blood trailed from her right nostril. She showed cyanosis, her lips and nails tinged hospital-curtain blue.
A postmortem would be able to tell, hopefully, if she had been smothered or strangled, or—the other option with asphyxiation—poisoned. They’d look for abrasions to the skin, material fragments in the mouth and lungs, contusions on the inner walls of the respiratory tract, hemorrhagic infiltration into neck muscles, injury to the hyoid bone, chest compression and rib fracture, toxicity in the blood and tissues… If Grant or anyone else had killed her, then Meg had to be sliced open, violated again, to find out.
