Murder on the christmas.., p.2
Murder on the Christmas Express, page 2
“Are you okay?” the woman next to Roz said. She was eyeing the emergency cord. If she pulled it, Roz would never catch the train.
“I’m fine,” Roz said, trying to hide her panic. She should’ve left even earlier. If all had gone according to plan, she would’ve been at the station an hour before departure. She should’ve foreseen an accident, or anything that could keep her away from her daughter. She was good enough at that herself.
Please let it be delayed, she thought, praying to God-knows-what. Let it be late. Let there be snow on the tracks, a leaf on a window, whatever. The darkest part of her even thought of a passenger on the line. But she didn’t wish for that.
When the Tube train stopped at Euston, Roz squeezed out onto the platform, dodging commuters and shoppers. The escalator would take too long, so, holding tight to her suitcase, arm muscles screaming, she puffed her way up the stairs. As she entered Euston, she looked at the clock on the board.
21:18.
Her heart was a lift about to plummet, but she held the doors. All wasn’t lost, not yet. She scanned the information board, trying to catch her breath.
21:15 Fort William. DELAYED.
Relief surged. She looked around the station. A baubled tree reached for the ceiling. Carol singers ding-donged merrily in the center of the concourse. Queues of people clutching snacks and paperbacks stretched out of shops. A man with reindeer antlers on his head waddled along pulling suitcases strained to bursting. All the emotional shades of Christmas were there, from people meeting loved ones off trains to the woman on her own, red parka hood up, trying to stopper sobs.
Roz felt the urge to go over to her, offer a hug, a tissue, a chunk of the whisky tablet—a sweet that was like fudge but Scottish, drier and better—she’d made that morning. Then she reminded herself of Heather’s frosted words: “Don’t you think it’s time you looked after your family instead of everyone else, Mum?”
Turning away from the weeping woman, Roz instead went over to the information desk. She needed to know when the sleeper would be leaving. Last thing she wanted was to settle in for the wait, fall asleep, and miss it.
An elderly man at front of the queue was trembling. The bunch of roses and eucalyptus in his hand shook with him. “Aren’t you supposed to put on coaches if the train is canceled?”
The woman behind the desk must’ve been no more than thirty, but her face was already lined, as if every customer complaint had etched its mark. “If alternative travel has been found, sir, then it will be on the board.”
“What am I supposed to do?” he said. “I have to get up to Manchester. My family is expecting me.”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” the woman said. “Snow is causing safety issues on the line.”
“But other trains are running.”
“Judgments have to be made. Some lines will have more issues than others. Age of the tracks, the trains running, weather in certain places.”
“But it’s Christmas,” he said in a small, high voice. Roz suddenly saw him as a young boy, learning for the first time that life wasn’t fair.
The railway tracks across the woman’s forehead doubled as she frowned. “I wish there was something I could do,” she said, and Roz believed her. “You’ll have to talk to someone at our head office. It arranges transit on occasions like this.”
The man nodded slowly and walked away, now looking much older.
Roz hoped it would be a long time before her incoming granddaughter knew the injustices of the world. She checked her phone. A new WhatsApp had arrived from Heather:
HEATHER: Still in early labor. Already scoffed all the flapjacks Ellie made. She’s making more in between my contractions. Wish I had some of your tablet. You on your way?
Roz thought about how to reply. Should she say that she had tablet in her bag ready to hand over the minute she arrived? Or maybe that she remembered the early stages of labor with Heather, how scared she’d been. How alone. How she tried not to access those memories at all, and how Roz’s heart hurt for her daughter, then and now. Or maybe she should say sorry and all the other words that had been kept in their tin and never opened. What was the emoji was for that?
This wasn’t the time though, and WhatsApp not the place. Instead, she tapped:
ROZ: Train delayed so I’m still at Euston. Eat all the flapjacks! Be with you soon as. Love you, Mum x
Roz should’ve sent tablet up to Heather weeks ago. She had no idea why she hadn’t. At work, her brain had been great at seeing how things came about. She could connect the railcars from what seemed to be an otherwise baffling and scattered train of events. But her own life? No chance. She didn’t even have the excuse that tablet needed to be made fresh. Her tablet lasted at least a couple of months. She had tried to leave it longer once, to test whether it could last a year, but within a fortnight she had nibbled it to nothing.
“Excuse me, madam?” The woman behind the desk—Natalia, according to her wonky name tag—was talking to Roz. “Can I help you?”
“Have you got any more information on the sleeper to Fort William?” Roz asked. “It says ‘delayed’ but not when it’s expected.” The word “expected” reminded her of Heather and her labor. And of Roz’s own labor. She shunted away the memories. She couldn’t think about it. Not now.
Natalia tapped into the computer. A look of relief smoothed her face. “You’re in luck. That’s the only leg of the sleeper running. Usually the train splits at Edinburgh to go to different parts of the Highlands, but today the other routes are considered too dangerous.”
“Lucky for me, then.”
“And it looks like it’ll be here within an hour or so.” The crinkles of concern returned. “You’re not getting off at one of the smaller stops, are you? Due to the delays, some of the little stations will be missed out.”
“I’m going all the way to Fort William.”
“Then you’re golden,” Natalia replied. “You’ll be home for Christmas.” Her smile was catching, spilling from her face to Roz’s.
Natalia’s smile deepened then faded as she looked past Roz and saw the frown on the next customer’s face. Roz thanked her again, hoping that Natalia’s Christmas improved from here.
As Roz crossed the concourse, she passed a drunk city twat in a floppy Santa hat. He wolf-whistled at a young woman dressed as an elf. Her face flushed and her shoulders slumped.
Roz knew his sort, as did so many. That feeling of being reduced. It had happened to her so many times, and worse. She’d joined the police to try and stop it happening to others. And she’d failed; her last case showed that more than anything.
She gave the young man her best inspector’s stare.
“Fuck off, Grandma,” he said, his face twisting into a snarl.
“I’m about to become a grandma, little boy, and proud of it. What would yours say if she saw you now?”
He paled. Looked down at the scuffed floor.
“Thought so.”
He gave one last sneer. As he shuffled off, the elf turned to Roz and glared. “I can look after myself, you know.” Then she walked away, tiny bells on her hat and shoes tinkling.
And that was exactly why Roz needed to leave the Met and this circus city. Let the monkeys look after themselves.
Chapter Three
A cappuccino cooled in the killer’s hand. And the killer’s hand shook. They knew that wasn’t good enough, that they’d have to pull themselves together. The murder had to happen. The victim mustn’t be allowed to live.
They watched people rush across the concourse, all wanting to get home. Many seemed worried about the delays and cancellations, or maybe about a fraught family Christmas that would meet them at the end of the train line. The killer wished that was all there was to worry about.
The killer tried to calm themselves by going through the plan. They had been on the Fort William sleeper three times recently—they knew the train, the terrain, and the stops like the premature lines on their face. The killer had never left anything to chance in their lives, not since they’d met the victim anyway, but there were too many variables to control. Too many people on the train. But it would still be the easiest way to get near the victim. They would be alone at times, vulnerable. And stuck on a train overnight with their killer.
Knowing that didn’t help though. This would be the first time they’d killed anything other than the swarm of fruit flies that beset their bananas last summer. Now the killer felt like they had fruit flies in their stomach. Did all assassins feel like this? What if the killer got scared? What if, when it came to it, they couldn’t commit murder?
But that was all it took. Commitment. And the killer had no problem with that. Not commitment to a cause, at least. They hadn’t been able to fully commit to a person since, well… That was the reason they were here, after all.
When they’d arrived at the station and saw the train had been delayed, they’d almost turned around and gone home. Imagined Christmas without death on their hands, only on their plate. But then they’d seen the victim. Checking their likes on social media, looking at themselves in shop windows. The smile on their face that the killer knew was as fake as their tan and the lash inserts that fell out on their pillow. The killer had no choice but to kill.
They walked to the whistle-stop to stock up on snacks. On long train journeys, it paid to be prepared in case no food arrived. Once, the killer had had to subsist on a tangerine and a squat tube of Pringles from London to Edinburgh. Today, they bought a cheese and pickle sandwich, some nuts, and a Cadbury chocolate bar. They wouldn’t be thinking of calories today. It was nearly Christmas after all, and there was murder to commit. They also bought a book then headed for the first-class lounge to wait for the train. They would fit in and smile.
A young couple walked by, swinging their clasped hands. They laughed and talked about the party they were off to. Christmas for them would probably be full of light and love and cinnamon kisses. The murderer-to-be was sure that they, along with the law, the police, judges and juries, the soaps and tabloids, would say it was wrong to kill at Christmas. But then they didn’t know the victim’s secrets. Not yet. When they did, they’d be sure to cheer the killer, and wish them a very merry Christmas.
Chapter Four
The first-class waiting lounge was bigger than Roz expected but still almost full. Spotting an armchair free near the back, she wove her way round the funky-shaped chairs and tables. Many of the voices she heard were Scottish, making her feel homesick in a way she hadn’t been for years. She had long ago grown used to being in London, where the East-End-meets-Essex accent was as ubiquitous as weed smoke. Here, though, with the accents in different tartans, she already felt at home.
Reaching the chair, she put down her luggage, then explored the lounge. There were showers and changing rooms; tables of “free” crisps, biscuits, fruit, and pastries; and machines dispensing tea and fancy coffee. So, this was how the other half traveled. She loved trains but had never been first class before. Everyone at the police station knew she’d always wanted to go in a sleeping car and had bought her this ticket as part of her leaving present. Bucket list item well and truly ticked.
After helping herself to a coffee and muffin, she settled down, making sure she had a clear view of one of the departures screens. She took out her phone—her message had been seen but not replied to. She wondered whether Heather was having another contraction. Ellie would be there, giving Heather back rubs and having her hand squeezed till her bones groaned. Roz should be there too.
Roz got out her Mirror Cube from her bag to distract herself. She closed her eyes and just held it. The 3D puzzle was made up of different-sized pieces, each covered with looking-glass vinyl. She had twice been Inverness’s Rubik’s-cube “Young Champion” in the late 1980s and had never lost the urge to put everything right. As she started twisting, the voices outside and inside her head faded. The only noise she heard was the small click of shifting pieces as they found their place. All she thought about was how each reflective element related to the whole. She felt as smooth and calm as a mirror, her mind blank and unoccupied.
“Can’t you leave it, Meg, just for one moment?” A voice cut through Roz’s clicking. The man was a few seats away, talking to a gorgeous, glamorous-looking young woman applying mulled-wine-red lipstick that matched her nails. She was in her midtwenties or so, and had the sharp cheek, wrist, and collarbones of someone who picked at their food. Her face, though, was contoured to suggest even deeper shadows.
The man was the kind of handsome that didn’t interest Roz. Gym-honed, tall-boned, tanned skin as smooth as paté. Her eyes slid off him as if he were greased. Designer bags surrounded the couple. “We’re supposed to be going on holiday together, not with the whole world,” he said. His legs, in sausage-skin-tight trousers, seemed to be going for a world record in manspreading.
“Keep your voice down, please,” Meg whispered, glancing around to see who was looking. Roz bent her head to peer in her bag and pulled out a little cellophane twist of her homemade whisky tablet. She slowly unwrapped it—this way she looked busy. People never thought you were listening if you weren’t looking at them directly. Roz had long ago perfected the art of watching and listening without appearing to, training herself to notice the tiniest things before people even spotted her. And as she was getting older, people noticed her less and less. She was being erased by age.
Another, younger, woman—in her early twenties Roz judged, although many girls looked older than they were—and her teenage brother weren’t even trying to disguise their interest in Meg. They were sitting at the table next to the coffee machine, staring at her, mouths open.
Meg froze when she saw them, then smiled and waved. The young woman’s hands went to her chest and she nodded slowly, as if she had been blessed by their attention. Meg then dabbed concealer onto the deep shadows under her eyes and put on a huge pair of sunglasses. She held her phone out on a sticklike contraption that fixed it in place, microphone clipped on. The phone itself was surrounded by a ring light that gave it a halo.
Meg smiled again, at the camera this time, and it was as if her presence was amplified. “Hi, everyone,” she said. “Just thought I’d let you know—the train is delayed so you’re going to have to wait for our train sleepover a little bit longer. Hang in there, put on comfy jammies, get your favorite festive drink and snacks, and we’ll be seeing in Christmas Eve together in no time.” She sang the last three words, her voice soaring, while making the peace sign, head on one side.
The young woman next to the coffee machine sang along, out loud. She was also holding up a phone, probably filming the whole thing.
Roz popped the tablet in her mouth, then quickly googled: Meg, “in no time.” She crunched through the grainy tablet and, as the spiced sweetness dissolved on her tongue, she read through the first page of results. Most were stills of Meg Forth winning a TV singing contest, holding a trophy, surrounded by glitter falling like snow, but there were also videos on YouTube and TikTok. Looked like she’d won the contest by singing “In No Time,” a soaring pop ballad about loss of love and youth that Roz remembered hearing on the radio. The song had stayed at number one for weeks, then Meg had released an album that briefly hit the top of the charts before disappearing.
Meg had resurfaced a year later as a beauty and travel “influencer” and tabloid sidebar regular: Meg Forth flaunts her curves and shows off her new man, reality TV star Grant McVey. Grant, it seemed from Roz’s swift Googling, had won Britain’s Best Boyfriend, a short-lived TV show in which he and nine other men had tried to woo a bamboozled woman called Freya. Grant had won the hearts of the voting public, and later broke Freya’s. He’d since been on a number of reality shows and met Meg on one of them. They’d split up a few times since due to, reading between the headlines, Grant’s drunken nights and wandering eye. On the covers of magazines, Grant was always looking at Meg with adoration. Now, in the first-class lounge of Euston, he glowered at her, his fingers drumming on the table.
“I promise, no more till we’re on the way.” She reached out and held his knee. Meg’s tone was low, reassuring. The kind Roz used when trying to appease people she knew would escalate a situation. “This is a break for us too. I just need to check in with followers regularly to show off my sponsors. But my priority is you.” She then leaned forward and whispered something to Grant that Roz couldn’t hear.
He nodded slowly, but his jaw clenched in anger. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, he took out a huge brown vape stick in the shape of a cigar and a bottle of vape juice. He carefully refilled his e-cigar, then inhaled slowly. The vape stick hissed and crackled like a death rattle. Grant huffed a stream of vapor into Meg’s face.
Meg laughed slightly but turned her head away. The look that crossed her face looked very much like fear. She opened her handbag and took out some white paper and a pair of sharp scissors with winged handles. She started cutting, curving the blades carefully. It was one of those paper doll chains, like Heather used to make. As Meg moved the paper around, Roz glimpsed a purple bruise on the inside of her upper arm. The kind of bruise Roz had seen in many cases of domestic violence.
But she shouldn’t leap to that conclusion. And none of that was her business. Roz leaned back in her chair, took a sip of her drink, and tried to switch off the curiosity that had very nearly got her killed several times in her twenty-five-year police career. The coffee was good, even if she’d let it go too cold. And the muffin had that solid, nubbly top that came off in one piece, like a chocolate-chipped thatched roof. Roz never knew why the term “muffin top” was used as a term of disparagement. Same with “bingo wings.” As far as she was concerned, they were positive: if you had a muffin top it meant you had eaten well; and if you had bingo wings it meant you’d won at bingo. And both of those things meant you’d lived.
