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She opened a drawer and consulted a schedule. “He should have landed at seven o’clock in Manchester. His train is due into Shipston in about twenty minutes.”
“In that case, we’ll meet him off the train,” said Gardener. “I’d like his mobile number.”
“Is all this necessary? The man has recently had heart surgery. I’m sure he won’t want you lot meeting him off the train and questioning him about murders that he probably knows nothing about.”
“I never said we were going to question him about murders, Miss White. Now, if he calls you and he hasn’t heard from us, tell him we will be meeting him at the station, and to stay put in the waiting room till we arrive.”
Both officers left without giving the secretary the opportunity to say anything further. But she did have her mouth open at the ready.
* * *
It took them only twenty minutes to reach Shipston. In that time, Gardener made three calls to Ronson’s phone. All were unanswered. The SIO had to be content with leaving messages, each more urgent than the last. When he’d asked at the ticket office about the train, he was told it was due in on Platform 1 within the next five minutes.
Shipston was a Grade II listed station that had been restored to its Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway appearance, with huge wooden name boards and raised lettering. There was, Gardener noticed, a heated waiting room with a well-stocked bookcase, a working signal box, and a staggered platform linked by a subway. On any other day, the place would have been beautiful and well worth a visit. Given his recent contact with stations and the reason he was here, his surroundings only served to diminish his patience by the second.
Gardener turned to see where his partner was and couldn’t help but smile when he saw him with two coffees and a small packet of biscuits.
Reilly shrugged. “Got to keep your strength up.”
“Keep going and you’ll make Geoff Capes look small,” said Gardener.
“What time’s the train due?”
“Anytime now, according to the ticket inspector. I have a bad feeling about this, Sean.”
“Can’t blame you after what we’ve seen. Has he not answered his phone, then?”
“No. All I’ve done is leave messages.”
“Do you reckon something’s happened to him? On the train, maybe?”
Gardener glanced around. Both platforms had about thirty people on them despite it being early morning. No doubt some were commuters, but a lot of them had cameras and were photographing everything in sight.
“I hope not, for all our sakes.”
Gardener suddenly heard a siren, not unlike the one heard from leaving a phone off the hook. A loudspeaker announced the arrival of the train from Manchester.
“Guess we’re about to find out,” said Reilly.
The tracks vibrated, and Gardener heard the noise of the train letting loose steam. In the distance, he could see the locomotive approaching.
The train stopped. People jumped off. Others stepped on. There seemed to be no sign of the man they were there to meet.
The conductor walked up and down the platform with a flag in one hand, and a whistle in the other. Gardener was about to give up when he noticed a porter leaning towards one of the windows. He appeared to be having a conversation with someone when the door suddenly opened. A man reached out and placed a suitcase on the platform.
Gardener breathed a sigh of relief when Ronson stepped down from the train. He shook hands with the porter. The conductor blew the whistle and raised his flag. The train slowly departed.
Ronson walked towards them, wearing a long coat and a deerstalker. In one hand he carried a briefcase, with the other he dragged his suitcase. He had a pipe in his mouth.
“Thought it was too good to be true,” said Reilly. “Take a bit more than a dodgy ICD to kill that bent bastard.”
Gardener silently agreed.
“Mr Ronson,” Gardener greeted him.
“I thought it was you ringing my phone. Can’t get away from you lot no matter where I end up.”
“Why didn’t you answer it?” Reilly asked.
