End of the Line by David Ashton Page A

Slate-grey and wolfish, clear Irish blue.
    â€˜A handsome brute,’ said McLevy. ‘Save the wee blemish round his neck.’
    â€˜A straight line,’ Mulholland noted. ‘Wire?’
    â€˜Wire would cut deep.’
    â€˜Not with cloth wrapped round. A garrotte!’
    â€˜Or a length of cord. Strip of leather.’
    They seemed to find great relish in these homicidal musings. Pettigrew indicated some envelopes scattered on the table where the man had sat.
    â€˜These would seem to be his . . . property. Business letters. Name and address. In Leith. Why we sent to your station.’
    â€˜Aye, we’re always open for murder,’ said McLevy, delving into the man’s pockets as Mulholland scrutinised the scattered papers.
    â€˜All addressed to one Count Borromeo,’ the constable announced. ‘Italian, I’ll wager – that would explain the garrotte.’
    â€˜Uhuh?’ McLevy grunted sceptically at this flight of fancy. ‘One thing for sure – there’s no wallet to hand.’
    â€˜Theftuous murder?’
    â€˜Possible. My surmise is that he was drunk as a lord when it happened, didnae feel a thing.’
    After a sardonic laugh at that idea the inspector abruptly straightened up, eyes boring into Pettigrew as if he were a sudden suspect.
    â€˜Where did the corpse get on the train?’
    â€˜I’m not rightly sure.’
    â€˜You must be. You’re the guard. You have a whistle round your neck!’
    Pettigrew pursed his lips in thought.
    â€˜Newcastle – I am almost certain.’
    The little man stiffened his back under their gaze.
    â€˜I like to be certain,’ he said firmly.
    â€˜Any luggage?’
    â€˜I could not swear – but I think not.’
    McLevy sensed that Pettigrew was mulling over something – a timetable mentality grinds slow but sure.
    â€˜Anything else come tae mind?’
    â€˜When I inspected tickets it was obvious the man had drink taken though he was . . . civil enough. But one other presence in the compartment caught my attention. I’m not certain I should point the finger though.’
    Both policemen smiled. A movement of the lips that indicated the onset of appetite.
    * * *
    â€˜A giant of a fellow. With ginger hair. In the same carriage!’ reported McLevy to Lieutenant Roach who sat under the portrait of his dearly beloved Queen Victoria in the commander’s neat and tidy office at Leith Station.
    The lieutenant had an expression of distrust upon his face though that was only natural.
    â€˜And a man of such description shoved past the collector at the ticket barrier,’ added Mulholland.
    â€˜Plus we found an empty wallet jettisoned upon the railway tracks – expensive leather, surely the corpse’s.’
    â€˜Robbery with death thrown in, sir!’
    To the constable’s enthusiastic assertion, Roach said nothing but twitched his long and lantern jaw. He was aware that things had been quiet recently and these two were growing restless, like slavering hounds without a deer carcass to gnaw upon.
    â€˜I’m not sure this is even our case,’ he demurred. ‘What about the Railway Police?’
    â€˜Couldnae find a goods wagon if it ran over their big toe,’ McLevy dismissed. ‘Only too pleased for us to take over the mortal remains.’
    Mulholland chipped in support. ‘And he lived in MacDonald Street, our parish, sir.’
    â€˜Who found the body?’ Roach asked while he pondered.
    â€˜The cleaners. Two old biddies, Margaret Reid and Jenny Dunlop.’
    â€˜Nothing to add though,’ said Mulholland.
    â€˜But by God, could they talk.’
    â€˜Not unusual for the species,’ muttered Roach.
    McLevy detected an unwonted brooding in his lieutenant’s bosom and signalled Mulholland to the door.
    â€˜Away tae the desk, constable, and arrange cadaver collection from Waverley Station,’ he declared.