Murder At Deviation Junction by Andrew Martin

said
        Bowman.
'That's if I stick to my fixed rule .. . which I never do.'
        'Well,
I'm for the town station, and home,' I said.
        He
nodded and we shook hands.
        'You'll
keep me posted as to your investigation?'
        I nodded.
'I'll be in touch,' I said.
        But
he still didn't move off, and it struck me that he'd been clinging to me like a
barnacle right from the start. He now muttered something while looking down at
the snowy pavement.
        'What's
that?' I said.
        'Peters,'
he said, looking up. 'It comes to me now . . . He'd had one of his two cameras
stolen.'
        'Where?'
        'Middlesbrough
- in the vicinity of the station, I think.'
        'Did
he report it?'
        'Not
sure.'
        'When
did this happen?'
        'Couple
of days before I saw him for the last time. I must look at my diary, as I say.'
        And
he nodded again and moved off in the direction of the sea.
    ----

Chapter
Six
        
        Down
to the sea, up again a little way, and I came to the other Whitby station: the
Town Station. It overlooked the harbour. Two trains were in steam, but there
were no takers for them. A line of footprints in the snow ran along the
platform, and I followed them to a porter who was sitting on a barrow reading
the Whitby Morning Post instead of scraping up the snow. I held up my
warrant card to him, saying, 'How do? I'm cutting through to Bog Hall, all
right?'
        I
wasn't really asking but telling him.
        I
stepped down off the platform and walked into a wide railway territory across
which snow flew right to left, seawards. Here was the main line to York,
running away through a mass of sidings and marshalling yards. Beyond lay the
estuary of the river, where signals gave way to the masts of schooners. I was
making for a mass of carriages by the river's edge when a tiny pilot engine
moving under a great tower of steam checked my progress. The driver kept his
face set forwards but the fireman turned and smiled down at me.
        'Now
then!' he called down.
        'You
wouldn't know the whereabouts of the yardmaster?' I said.
        Just
then a man stepped around the smokebox end of the engine, which straightaway
began a fast retreat, the fireman grinning at me all the while.
        'Who
wants me?' asked the man. I explained what I was about and showed him my
warrant card, and he gave his name as Mackenzie. He was a big bloke, and seemed
to fairly roll over the rails and barrow-boards on our way to the farthest
corner of the siding, where the railway land met the half-frozen river.
        'Mothballed,'
said Mackenzie, coming to rest, with his fingers in his waistcoat pockets,
before a train of oddments. We were looking directly up at a dirty but
good-class bogie carriage. It was in Company colours, but 'CTC' was written in
gold on the side.
        'Cleveland
Travelling Club,' said Mr Mackenzie. 'Ran from Whitby to Middlesbrough and back
every day for nigh on twenty years.'
        'When
was it decommissioned?'
        'One
year since,' he said. 'Fancy a look up? Pride of the line, this was,' said
Mackenzie, hauling himself up towards one of the high doors. He was proud of it
himself too, as it seemed to me.
        He
got the door open after a bit of struggle that cost him his perch on the
footboard, pitching him on to the mucky snow beneath. He clambered up again,
motioning me to follow.
        The carriage
smelt of past cooking, and it contained coldness: a special damp kind.
        'Subscribing
Club members only in here,' said Mackenzie. 'That was always the rule. No
guests allowed - not even if they paid treble. You after taking pictures?'
        He was
pointing at the Mentor Reflex.
        I
shook my head. I was looking at a great boiler in a cubby-hole all of its own.
        'Tea-making
machine,' said Mackenzie, as he squeezed his way forwards.
        'Galley's
next,' he said, sliding back a door that gave on