Читать книгу The Daniel Marchant Spy Trilogy: Dead Spy Running, Games Traitors Play, Dirty Little Secret - Jon Stock - Страница 45

Marchant heard the police before they reached his carriage. He lay there, eyes open, Kirsty by his side, listening to the sounds of sleep all around him. In the background he could detect the faint but urgent voices of authority. He disentangled himself from Kirsty’s limp embrace and swung down to the floor of the carriage, making sure his footfall was silent. He knew he had to move quickly. Police were working their way through the train from both ends.

Marchant stepped out of the sleeping area and into a small space at the end of the carriage, where it was joined to the next one. In a cubicle marked ‘Laundry’, a junior-looking train official slept on a fold-down bed, pillows and blankets stacked neatly on shelves above him. The door was ajar. Quietly, Marchant pulled it closed. Then he pushed down on the handle of the outside door and swung it open. The night air was warm, the surrounding countryside flat: paddy fields. Marchant estimated that the train was travelling at 30 mph–not quick, but too fast to jump.

Beside him was a small metal cupboard marked ‘Electrics’. He pulled at its dented front panel. The lock had long since broken, and it opened easily. Voices were now getting louder behind him. He looked up and down the train, then flicked all those switches in the cupboard that were in the up position. Two lights above him went out, along with the dim night lights in the main carriage. It would buy him a few seconds. Checking that no emergency lighting had come on, he stretched down onto the step outside the train’s open door, holding onto the handle beside it. He then put his left foot up onto the door, and lifted himself upwards, glancing at the printed list of passengers that had been glued to the outside of the train in Delhi: name, sex, age.

For a moment, suspended horizontally above the moving ground, he thought he was going to fall, but with his left hand he managed to grip the top of the door, and pulled himself up further. A second later, the train passed a concrete signal post, which brushed against his billowing shirt. The surge of adrenalin made his legs heavy, and he knew he was losing strength.

Glancing both ways, he grabbed onto the lip of the train’s roof, then lifted himself upwards again, pushing with one foot on the small light above the passenger list. The next moment he was lying flat on the roof. He thought of Shah Rukh Khan dancing on the top of a train in Dil Se, but he didn’t feel like a film star as he pressed himself against the dirty train roof, looking out for bridges.

He knew he wasn’t safe yet. Leaning over the side of the train, he grabbed the heavy door and swung it shut. The door clicked closed, but not properly. There was no time to push it flush with the side of the carriage. He started to shuffle back down the roof of the train, towards economy class, keeping his body as flat as he could.

Below him, a posse of policemen entered the carriage from the far end, making their way through the sleeping families, looking for someone. They didn’t disturb passengers unless they couldn’t see their faces. When they reached Kirsty’s and Holly’s cubicle, the policeman in charge deferred to a female colleague, who moved forward. Holly’s face was clearly visible, but Kirsty’s was hidden beneath her blanket.

‘Yes please, wake up madam, we need to see your passport,’ the policewoman said, tugging on Kirsty’s blanket. She then spoke to Holly, whose eyes had opened. ‘Passport, madam? Police check.’

Holly sat up and fumbled sleepily through her rucksack, which was at the end of her bed. ‘Kirsty, wake up,’ she called across to her friend, who was still asleep. ‘Kirsty?’

Kirsty stirred, blinking at the policewoman, whose head was just below the level of her bunk. Instinctively, she turned to where Marchant had been lying, and then looked back at the woman.

‘Lost something?’ she said to Kirsty.

‘Just my bag.’

‘Is this it?’ the policewoman said, tapping the rucksack at Kirsty’s feet.

Kirsty nodded, then pulled out her passport from the money belt around her waist, sweeping back her hair, still half asleep. Where had David gone? She hadn’t heard him leave. As the woman inspected both passports, then passed them to her senior colleague, Holly glanced quizzically at Kirsty, who shrugged.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Kirsty asked.

‘We’re looking for an Irishman, David Marlowe,’ the senior officer said, a bamboo lathi in one hand. ‘He was seen embarking this train in Delhi with two female foreign tourists. Have you seen anyone of this name?’

Kirsty glanced at Holly.

‘Yes, he’s travelling in economy,’ Holly said. ‘We only met him on the platform at Nizamuddin. Bit of a loser.’

Kirsty threw her a reproachful, confused look. She knew she should have stayed in Delhi with Anya.

‘Which place was he heading?’ the policewoman asked, making notes on a small pad.

‘Why don’t you ask her,’ Holly said. ‘She knew him better.’

‘He helped us out in a difficult situation on the platform in Delhi,’ Kirsty said, addressing Holly as much as the policewoman. ‘I think he said he was going as far as Vasai.’

Whatever David might have done wrong, Kirsty thought, he had still gone out of his way to help them in Delhi. Holly seemed to have forgotten that.

‘Vasai? He wasn’t travelling to Goa then?’

‘He didn’t have enough money.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘No.’

‘And he was travelling alone?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Any luggage?’

‘I don’t think so. Why are you asking me so many questions?’

‘Can you recall what was he wearing?’

‘I don’t know.’ Kirsty suddenly felt very tired. ‘Jeans?’

‘He smelt, that’s all I remember,’ Holly said. Kirsty didn’t even bother to look at her this time. She just wanted to go back to sleep, and wake up in her own bed in Britain.

‘A word of advice, madam,’ the policewoman said, handing back both passports to Kirsty. ‘Stay away from ne’er-do-wells like David Marlowe.’

‘What’s he done?’ Holly asked.

‘You’ll read about it soon enough in today’s papers. He’s dangerous, a slippery fellow.’