The Strangers on the Trains ( Part 6)

For the rest of the day, Emily listed everything she knew about the man with the beard onto the whiteboard. The list was disappointingly short. Dark Hair, Beard, Black Coat, Foreign, that’s all she had. On the notice board she pinned the photos of the same man from the three crashes, Barnes, Southall and Dagenham East.

Beside each photo she wrote the year of the crash. There were fifty five years between all three photographs, yet the images looked like the same man. Emily realised it was impossible. She knew from past experience not to jump to conclusions. If you took two blond haired white men about the same age and size. Made them grow a similar beard and combed their hair in the same style and then put them in identical jackets; they would also look very alike. But underneath all of that they would be very different people.

She was on her sixth cup of coffee and it was still only half past two. She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes and started to think. What she wouldn’t give for a glass of good red now.

She had over one hundred and fifty cases to go through. If she was to go through each case in detail it would take a minimum of two days per case. This would mean a minimum of three hundred days would be needed. There are only two hundred and fifty working days in a year. Take away another twenty five for her holiday entitlement and she would only be able to work two hundred and twenty five. So it would take her almost a year and a half, to go through all the files. Far too long. She needed to prioritise. She kept her eyes closed and kept thinking.

What was the most important thing here? Was it to establish how many crashes the man with the beard was connected to? No, it wasn't. It was to find out who he was and what he was doing on the trains. It didn’t matter if he was there. What mattered was what he was doing there. So far she knew he could be placed at five crashes. Barnes, Southall, Dagenham East, Moorgate and Clapham Junction. There must be a common denominator.

She sat up, it was obvious. They were all in the London area. Moorgate and Clapham were in central London. Barnes, Southall and Dagenham were all part of the old Greater London. Priority should be given to crashes that occurred in London or involved trains going to or from London. That would shorten the list. If she then started with crashes from the past twenty years that would shorten it further. There was more chance of reliable witnesses for Fat Tony to interview if the crashes were recent.

She went through the list from 1992 – 2012 but only involving trains with a London connection and only those that incurred fatalities. There were only three.

The Potters Bar crash in May 2002, which killed 7 people involving a train leaving from Kings Cross Station. The Hatfield crash in October 2000 which killed 4 and was also leaving from Kings Cross. Finally the Ladbrooke Grove crash of October 1999 which killed thirty one and was out of London Paddington. She immediately emailed Julie for the three case files.

She felt as though she was getting somewhere. She looked at her watch, it was 14.48. She wondered how long her request would take this time, bearing in mind her conversation with Paul that morning. Would things still be given as quickly or had he decided to slow things down a bit?

The coffee pot was empty. She put the old used filter paper and coffee in the bin and replaced it with fresh items, then walked off to the small kitchen area at the end of the corridor. She filled up the coffee pot with fresh water. As she was doing so she looked up and saw Pauline Jenkins.

“Hello Emily, how’s the workload going?”

“Not too bad Pauline thanks, you?”

“Oh my jobs nothing compared to you researchers, just bits and bobs of filing, been doing it for years, making sure stuffs filed away properly and easy to find when you smart people want it.”

“Trust me Pauline, we’re not that smart.”

The both shared a laugh. Emily was grateful for someone to talk to. In her old office at the MOD she worked in a team of four. There was always something going on, something to gossip about. Now it was her on her own for hours on end. By some strange coincidence Pauline made a comment.

“Listen Emily, I know it can get a bit lonely in an office on your own, but if you ever fancy a spot of lunch or a glass of something nice after work just give me a call on extension 343. I don’t have much to go home for these days since my husband Bert passed away last year.”

Emily suddenly felt sorry for her. This immaculately dressed and quite stern looking woman now looked quite vulnerable.

“I’d really like that Pauline. I’m not one for lunch but never turn down the opportunity to have a glass of wine after work. How about tomorrow, about six?”

Pauline’s face lit up like a child’s on firework night.

“Oh Emily you have made my day. I’ll give your door a knock at six tomorrow. There’s a nice little place just around the corner, nice and quiet.”

Emily left Pauline to fill her kettle and walked back to her office. There was a man with a sack barrow waiting for her.

“Can I help you?”

“Got some boxes for Emily Watson?”

She looked at her watch 15.12. Julie really was something else. This was even quicker than usual.
She took the boxes, signed his paperwork and he left. Her problem now was where to start. She decided to go for the most recent.

She opened the box marked Potters Bar 2002. She looked at the list of names on the box, the last name before hers was Stephen Palmer and the date 15/4/ 2004. So, Nicola Hammond hadn’t got this far.

This box was different. It had much more paperwork in it. There were three reports. A British Rail report, a Police Report but there was also a very thick and heavy Health and Safety Executive report. There were seven deaths at Potters Bar.

Emily spent the next three hours going through the various reports, making notes as she did so.
A certain word was used many times in the various reports. A word that made Emily sit up and take notice. The word was sabotage.

The main cause of the crash was poor maintenance of certain rail switches known as “points”. The private company that maintained these had only inspected them a few weeks before and claimed they were fine. Yet when the crash occurred the points were faulty. The private firm claimed that there had to be some kind of “sabotage” involved. Emily was excited. What if someone had done something to the points and made the train crash? This would be a whole new theory. But why would someone do that? Her head was spinning with all sorts of ideas.

Her mobile rang, she didn’t recognise the number. She answered it.

“Emily Watson.”

“Ah, Doctor Watson, how are you?”

It was Tony Palmer.

“Hello FAT TONY, any news yet?”

“Yes my little darling, are you free to talk?”

Emily started pacing the room. She was all excited about the sabotage and then wanker face had called. She was impatient.

“Yes, yes, what news have you got?”

“I found out about Edward Hargreaves, he’s dead.”

Emily yawned.

“No surprise there then, he would have been ninety seven!”

“I’ll come back to that in a moment, mien fuhrer. He had a son, I wasn’t too far out, born in 1938, so he’s seventy four. But still got all his marbles. Problem is he don’t remember his Dad talking much about the crash.”

“So you’ve drawn a blank then?”

“Not on your nelly darling. Fat Tony never draws a blank. Eddie worked for the local council; he was a painter and decorator. He had a young apprentice with him called Steve Stokes, only eighteen when Eddie had the train crash. They were close, like father and son. Went for a beer after work every night. The kid, now in his seventies remembers Eddie talking about it a lot. I’m going to see him tonight up in Cheltenham where he lives. But he told me a couple of things over the phone. Eddie told him that the man that sat opposite him on the train was foreign. He tried to strike up a conversation with him but the guy didn’t seem to understand him and just smiled at him. He had dark hair and a beard and, here’s the best thing, he had an ear ring. Only one, quite rare in those days, only sailors back then would have worn an earring. He also said that Eddie told him that the foreigner was holding a small parcel. Like a shoe box.”

Emily was delighted with Tony’s work.

“Tony you are brilliant that’s excellent news, anything else?”

“Oh yes sweetheart, the best bit. Eddie died in 1955.”

The news stopped Emily in her tracks.

“But that was the same year as the crash.”

“Yep, died three weeks afterwards.”

“How, how did he die?”

“Suicide, jumped off of Lambeth Bridge into the Thames.”