Back-Slash by Bill Kitson Page A

At a guess, I’d say when he goes shopping, it would only be to Helmsdale or Netherdale, right?’
    Binns nodded. ‘Seems logical.’
    ‘Look at the logo of the supermarket on the carrier. Their nearest branches are York and Harrogate. I can’t see Marshall travelling that far for his cornflakes and sliced loaves, can you?’
    The sergeant grinned. ‘You might make a detective one of these days, Mike. What do we do next?’
    ‘I want you to remain here and liaise with SOCO. Make sure they give the contents of that bag priority. Lisa can come back with me. I’ll sort out a press release, and then I’m going to see if I can get an interview with Marshall’s employer, Sir Maurice Winfield. If anyone round here knows what’s going on, he will.’
    ‘I thought he was retired?’
    Nash gave Binns an old-fashioned look. ‘Don’t believe all the rumours you hear, especially those that might have been started deliberately.’

    As Marshall turned to walk into the railway station he felt totally alone. Quite unlike anything he’d experienced even during his long sojourn in Woodbine Cottage. This was an altogether different emotion compounded by fear. Fear of the ruthless unknown enemy, and the apprehension of an approaching battle, in which Marshall was without ally. He was up against an opponent who appeared to know everything about him, whereas Marshall knew nothing about his enemy. He had only one tiny scrap of information, and even that would be useless without Lisa’s cooperation. She’d agreed to help, but was that merely to rid herself of a man she saw as a dangerous killer? Had she gone straight to the phone, once he’d left her flat? Even now the police could be on the lookout for him. By entering the railway station, was he about to walk into the arresting arms of waiting detectives?
    Marshall glanced back towards the Dickinsons’ Land Rover, an unconscious plea for reassurance. But Barry was manoeuvring into the early morning traffic that was about as close to a rush hour as Netherdale High Street achieved. Marshall walked towards the station’s ticket office, his thoughts as grey and cheerless as the January skies.
    Netherdale railway station had been simplified to the point of stark necessity. It comprised only the waiting room, located in the middle of the single platform that segregated travellers wishing to go north from those heading south. Within it were the ticket office, a set of toilets and a food-and-drinks machine, the only requirements deemed necessary for the few passengers to use Netherdale.
    ‘Single to Leeds,’ he asked the official behind the screen. As the man brought the details up on his computer Marshall glanced apprehensively round the small room. A slightly spotty youth, his eyes narrowed with concentration, was seated in one corner, his fingers moving rapidly over the keys on his mobilephone. Further along an immense woman in her late thirties was attempting to pacify a toddler in a pushchair whilst dealing with the highly vociferous demands and complaints of a couple of older children. At the far end of the bench, as opposite in attitude as in location from the youth, was a middle-aged man who was struggling with the
Daily Telegraph
crossword. At his feet was a briefcase and alongside him on the bench another case whose dimensions betrayed its contents: a laptop computer. The rest of the waiting-room was empty.
    ‘The 8.55’s your first train, then there’s another at 9.25,’ the railway official told him. ‘You’ll need to change at York.’
    Marshall paid for the ticket and walked out on to the platform. He wandered across to the southbound side and sat on one of the slatted benches. Their uncomfortable design was surely intended to avoid passengers missing their train, for there was no chance of anyone dozing off on those unyielding surfaces.
    The earlier train was crowded, but Marshall wanted to get clear of Netherdale as fast as he could. Losing himself in the mass of