Читать книгу Gone in the Night - Mary-Jane Riley - Страница 22

Detective Inspector Sam Slater jogged and splashed down the muddy path through the trees to the pedestrian crossing over the railway line. It was a miserable day, with lowering clouds and gusts of rain. A miserable day to kill yourself.

He reached the track, and, as he opened the gate festooned with warning notices and one giving out the number for the Samaritans, he saw that the train had come to a standstill about a hundred metres down the track. It was travelling towards Ipswich, probably carrying people to work in the town, or further afield to London. The air ambulance was preparing to land and Sam knew forensics would be along soon to gather up what was left of the body. He could imagine the scene on the train: commuters on their mobile phones cancelling meetings, phoning bosses to explain why they would be late. Because they would be late. Some would be complaining, demanding their Delay Repay forms and muttering about compensation. Few would spare much of a thought for the driver who had probably heard the dull thwack against the bottom of the train, a hollow crunch as metal hit flesh. He would probably hear that sound for the rest of his life and know that he had been the unwilling instrument in someone’s death.

Engineers in hi-vis tabards and safety helmets had turned up to check the train for damage before it would be allowed to move on.

Slater walked down the track and past the train.

She had been lying on the rails before she was hit, thought Slater. She had been decapitated, he could see that, and various limbs were strewn along the track, along with shreds of material. There were long streaks of blood along the line and on the clinker under the track. If he looked carefully near his feet, and he tried not to, he could see white bits of bone and grey brain matter. He wondered how much forensics would actually retrieve before the rain washed it all away. Not that it mattered. Railway suicides were cut and dried.

Police Constable Edwards was taping off the access onto the track, and Slater thought of the angry people waiting on platforms for trains that were either delayed or cancelled. That was the trouble. A delay for one person was another’s final journey.

Slater took one more look at the scene – at the engineers, the paramedics from the air ambulance and the train driver who was sitting by the side of the track oblivious to the rain. Soon there would be posies of flowers, ribbons and teddy bears – there were always teddy bears – by the crossing gates that would wither and turn brown and rot with time.

Nodding to Edwards and the extra officers who had turned up, Slater turned and jogged back down the muddy path which was now more churned up than ever.