'And what's all this about the weather: "the snowfall was now severe ... the snowfall, continuing severe ..."?'

  'It had a bearing on events,' I said.

  'What events, Detective Stringer? You were sent north to bring in Clegg. Why did you not give chase when he ran out of the steel mill?'

  'That's not the place for a sprint, sir,' I said.

  Again he digested the remark. Ought he to flash into rage? I could see him weighing the question. He rarely did so in his place of work, and that was where he differed from my first evil governor, Stationmaster Crystal.

  'Now this business of the body -' said Shillito. 'It's a simple enough matter: you are right to make mention of the discovery and of the fact that you stumbled on an acquaintance of the dead man. But then we have page after page about this journalist, and yet more about this Travelling Club and their special carriage.'

  'The dead man was interested in it.'

  'Well, I'm not.'

  Why would he not sign the bloody book and have done?

  'If this becomes a murder investigation,' he said, 'the Travelling Club may become of account. But it seems to me a clear case of suicide.'

  'It warrants investigation,' I said.

  He shook his head.

  'Do you intend asking my permission to pursue the matter?'

  'Yes,' I said, and he looked at me until I put in the word 'sir'.

  'I thought so. And yet you won't keep abreast of the baggage claims.'

  This was the only reasonable grounds for complaint that he had. I found the interception of fare-avoiders dull work, but I stuck at it nonetheless. Baggage claims were a different matter. Whenever luggage was reported stolen, and compensation put in for, I was required to write a report - a 'flash report' as it was called for some mysterious reason. If I found any suspicion of fraud, the Company would fight the claim, but I never did find any. It was all old ladies who'd lost cats, folk thrown into despair by the loss of some article quite useless to the general run of humanity - and very boring.

  'And what about the cardsharpers on the Leeds train?' asked Shillito.

  There had been reports of gaming on York-Leeds evening trains.

  'You are also to see Davitt arrested and charged.'

  Davitt was a York citizen and notorious fare-avoider. He travelled all over the shop, always without a ticket, and it seemed to me that not paying the fare was the whole purpose of his travel.

  The constables were now quitting the office for fear that Shillito would begin asking about their own neglected duties.

  'Above all, you are also to go after friend Clegg again,' Shillito continued, '- and this time you are to gain your object, Detective Stringer. These are your priorities. As for starting up murder investigations in the territory controlled by other divisions of the force - how do you think that will go down with the Middlesbrough fellows?'

  Now this was the meat of the question, and I could see Shillito weighing it in the balance just as I had - only where my aim was my own advancement, his was to check me.

  Captain Fairclough, who was to interview me on Christmas Eve, had particular responsibility for the Northern Division as well running the entire North Eastern force. By interesting myself in the Paul Peters business . . . well, he might not take kindly, nor might his men. Set against that was the fact that here was a chance to make an impression. I might throw light on the Peters mystery before the interview, then make free with my findings.

  There again, whatever I discovered, Shillito would discover also, through his reading of my notebook. If I turned up anything of interest, he would claim the discovery as his own, and so get points with the Middlesbrough men for himself.

  I had been going over this most of the night before, while attending to Harry at hourly intervals, and it seemed I had no choice. As my senior officer, Shillito would write a report for consideration by Captain Fairclough. It would not damn me on all counts. Shillito would try to seem mild, and outside the field of play he was not up to any really bold stroke. But it would not be favourable, no matter how many flash reports I filed between now and Christmas. My best hope of promotion was to bring off something sensational that would outweigh all of Shillito's carping.

  'You are to go north again tomorrow,' he said. 'You are to lay hands on the suspect, and this time no excuses will serve. I will make arrangements once again for you to take Clegg to the Middlesbrough station police office.'

  He knew I would use the opportunity to bring up the matter of Paul Peters, to ask after any crime reports touching on it. Shillito had decided to give me enough rope to hang myself.

  'Do you not have a home address for Clegg?' I said, not fancying another visit to the iron-making hell, horribly fascinating though it was.

  'No,' said Shillito, 'but I do know that they change shifts on Wednesdays. Tomorrow is Wednesday, and they'll be stopping work at two o'clock, when Clegg and his pals always go off to the same public house.'

  I kept silence as he eyed me; this low pub of his would be another lion's den. He was turning the pages in his own orderly little notebook.

  'It's called the Cape of Good Hope,' he said presently, 'and it's on Randall Street.'

  'Where's that when it's at home - sir?'

  Now this was pure sauce on my part, and Shillito tilted his head back and looked at me over the top of his wide, flat nose. It was the danger signal, as I knew. For all his methodical ways, Shillito was not above clouting any man. I counted my heart-throbs as he contemplated me, but the situation cracked when Wright spoke up:

  'That game of yours, Ernest - how did the score stand when the scrap broke out?'

  'There was no scrap, Mr Wright,' said Shillito, making great play of the 'Mister'. 'There was simply an aggravated assault, committed by a man who unaccountably remains at large.'

  Silence in the police office - for he had not answered the question.

  'As to the score - do you mean the score as adjudged by the referee?'

  'Well... yes,' said Wright.

  'According to the official it was nil-nil,' said Shillito, 'he himself having disallowed two perfectly good goals scored by our own team.'

  Somebody would be getting a letter about that. He was still in fits about it: you could tell by the redness rising in his face as he at long last initialled my notebook, returned it to me and swept out of the office with carefully folded topcoat under his arm.

  When he'd gone, I set about some flash reports.

  My backlog included twelve reported losses, of which only two had come in from York addresses, which was fine because regarding these I was required to pay a visit to the complainant. Otherwise, a letter asking for more particulars was required. Many of these went unanswered, and the more the better as far as the Company was concerned, because then the matter could be dropped.

  When Shillito had gone, Wright stepped over and placed a letter on my desk. He smelt of oranges, which somehow didn't sit right with his ancient white face. He sat back and looked on as I picked up the envelope.

  It was addressed in a shocking hand, and the nib of the pen had flooded between the words 'Stringer' and 'York Station Police Office.' The postmark was Whitby. I looked back at Wright, who had now set about another bloody orange, the clicking of his ancient jaw in rhythm with the ticking of the clock, and the two together making the sound of a rocking chair. He watched me with eyes fairly bulging.

  The letter was one sheet of paper; and it came out backwards, so that I saw the signature first, which was a long word, running across half the page. I turned the leaf over: the address was set down as 'Shunters Cabin, Bog Hall Siding'. It was Company paper, though of an old style. 'Dear Stringer of the Rly Police York', the letter began. 'Mr Mackenzie, Yard Master (Nights) told me what you were about, and I have set my mind to it, and there is one from the Club you were asking after that I have heard of. That was Mr Moody. He was an old man but I heard he went under a train somewear north in summer, and is dead. His son I know is still living. He is in Pickering. He is a gentleman like his farther and deals in chimbeny sweaping eqpt like his farther did to.'

  It was signed: 'E. Handley'.

  It was good of the fellow to go to the labour of writing.

  I wouldn't need a gazetteer to find a man called Moody in a small place like Pickering, but when would I get the chance to go there? It didn't matter. I would go. Meanwhile, I had a telegram to get off: to Mr S. Bowman of The Railway Rover, Bouverie Street, London E.

  Chapter Eight

  Once again, I sat on a train shaking across the cliffs with Whitby behind me, heading for Ironopolis. It was all Middlesbrough today, for I also had in my pocket two written communications from the iron town. I had collected these from the office before crossing the footbridge and boarding my train from Platform Fourteen. I had read them as I crossed, with all the thunder of the morning peak going on below: the first was from a Detective Sergeant Williams of the Middlesbrough Railway Police, and it was in response to a telegram sent on my behalf by Shillito: 'Confirm suspect Clegg can be brought here for questioning or charge. Holding cell at your disposal.' That second sentence was by way of a joke, perhaps. At any rate, this was Shillito arranging a second bout between me and Clegg.

  The other letter was more curious, and no less anxious-making. It was from the secretary to the passenger traffic manager, Middlesbrough District. A search had been made for the file requested: that concerning the subscribers to the Cleveland Travelling Club, and 'It is very regrettable to have to relate that the documents in question appear to be missing. It is possible that the Club subscribers were, or are, registered with us as ordinary First Class Season holders, but we have so many of these listed that we would need the names of the parties in order to be able to provide confirmation.'

  My telegram to Stephen Bowman of The Railway Rover, Bouverie Street, London E., had so far gone unanswered.

  Sandsend came and went, then Staithes, the train crossing over the mighty cliff-gaps by means of the towering viaducts. To the folk below, our engine driver must seem more like an aviator. After the long darkness of the Grinkle Tunnel, the mine workings began to appear once more. We slowed on to the Kilton Viaduct, passing the whirling gauge that was meant to warn of high winds. I looked down towards the Flat Scar mine: the sea beyond was grey, the sky white. Two men were on the jetty of the little harbour, standing thoughtful-like. But there were no ships. In the fields and on the grey slag piles around the mine, the snow remained, though worn away by footsteps, hooves and machinery here and there. It was as though it had overstayed its welcome, the novelty having worn off, and I thought of the pub in York that had started out as the Bay Horse and had gradually become the Grey Horse owing to the quantity of smuts on the sign.

  There was no train ascending the zigzag line this time. Instead, one man toiled up the bank towards the viaduct. A dog walked alongside him, and he seemed to have an extra, bright white arm, but it was the neck of a shot goose, carried on his shoulder. I looked to my left and saw the Rectory smoking.

  We came into Middlesbrough station dead on time at midday. I hung about on the platform watching some of the gentry climb down from First; all the porters in Middlesbrough were attending those select carriages, offering to carry even the smallest of black leather valises or just holding open doors. One fellow in a silk topper climbed down with a cigar in his hand, and I could have sworn he was about to give it to a porter to hold as he put on his gloves; or perhaps he would content himself with putting it out on the little bloke's cap. But what became of the cigar I never saw because, looking to my right at that moment, I saw the word 'Police' painted in white on a green door.

  The Middlesbrough police office was much homelier than the York one. It was long and narrow like the railway carriages that were forever pulling up alongside. The crackling of a good fire mingled pleasantly with the ticking of a good clock, and the men worked at desks behind wooden screens - a very snug-looking arrangement. Even the constables had desks, for two of the men working wore that uniform. There were two others in plain dress, and one of these came towards me with hand extended.

  'Detective Sergeant Williams?' I said.

  'Ralph,' he said, nodding, 'Ralph Williams.'

  He was a pleasant, restful-looking sort of man, with sleepy eyes and sleepy moustache.

  'Where's that hardened villain Clegg, then?' he enquired, grinning. 'We have a very comfortable cell waiting for him.' And he pointed towards a stout door at the end of the room, indicating at the same time an old fellow surrounded not by a wooden screen but by a barricade of filing cabinets. I knew him straightaway for the Middlesbrough equivalent of Wright, the chief clerk.

  'Clegg's known to this office, is he?' I said, removing my cap.

  Ralph Williams smiled slowly. 'Well, I can't say he is.'

  'I'm expecting to run into him come opening time at the Cape of Good Hope,' I said.

  'The Cape?' he said, thoughtfully. 'An ironman, is he?'

  'Aye,' I said. 'Works at Hudson's.'

  'You'll be wanting a constable to go with you,' he said, which was exactly what I'd been hoping he wouldn't say. 'I think we have a man spare, if you'll hold on a moment.'

  But before he could turn around and call to one of the uniformed men, I heard myself say, 'No bother. I'm sure I'll manage.'

  'You'll have your whistle about you, I suppose?'

  Once more that slow smile - which made it very difficult for me to gauge the true level of any danger waiting in the Cape of Good Hope.

  Having spared the Middlesbrough office the inconvenience of lending me a constable, I felt entitled to ask a favour.

  'I'm curious to know whether a photographer reported a camera stolen about this time last year. It might have happened somewhere on the railway territory.'

  'And this is touching on -?'

  Williams was making circles with his right hand, as though winding up his memory.

  '- Paul Peters,' I said.

  'Yes, the body turned up at Stone Farm,' he said, nodding.

  'He was a photographer,' I said. 'He generally carried two cameras, but suddenly he had one, and I think he'd been in Middlesbrough in the meantime. I'm told somebody had one of his cameras away while he was up here, just before he copped it in the woods.'

  Williams kept silence for a second, before saying:

  'They're all luck, some blokes, aren't they? Billy's the man for that,' he added, pointing towards the clerk at the far end. 'We'll ask him to hunt up the crime reports for last year.'

  But old Billy was listening with ears cocked, and by the time I'd walked down to his end of the office, he was already at it. He was the Middlesbrough equivalent of Wright, but he smoked pipes instead of eating oranges. There were two on his desk and one in his mouth as he fished the right file out of a drawer. It was labelled 'Crime Reports, December 1908'.

  I looked through 'Stolen Albert', 'Stolen pony', 'Assault', another 'Assault', 'Damaged fencing', 'Trespass' and then about ten 'Drunk' or 'Drunk and Riotous', all threaded together with green string. 'Stolen Camera and Assault' came right after, as I'd somehow known it would, in this most obliging office. Complainant: Paul Peters, professional photographer.

  In the afternoon of Thursday 3 December, Peters had been set upon by two men at Spring Street, which was evidently close to Middlesbrough station. He had not been badly hurt - that would come later - but one of two cameras he carried had been stolen. It was noted that Peters had been unable to provide a useful description of his assailants except that they wore dirty working men's clothes. The report had been made out by a Constable Robinson. I pointed to the name, and asked Billy if the man was about. He shook his head.

  'Patrolling the line just presently,' he said.

  Well, at least he wasn't dead, as everybody else connected to the Peters business seemed to be. I thanked Billy and signalled thanks to DS Williams, who was now working the office telephone; I then quit the station bounds for Middlesbrough town centre.

  The streets were all at right angles, as though built quickly to the simplest plan, and all carried very honest and straightforward names: Council Street, Corporation Road, New Street. All was new-looking and spruce in the bright winter light, for the sun had emerged at last, but a price had been paid for the forcing of this town, and I saw it in the shape of the giant, red-smoking blast furnaces to the east. It was heaven and hell, with the station and the high-level lines leading in and out the barrier between the two.

  As I headed away from the station and its viaducts, the sound of a very majestic arrival made me turn back around.

  It crossed the viaduct like bloody royalty: the Gateshead Infant, so called because of its incredible, titanic size. There'd been twenty of the beauties built - V Class Atlantics. You never saw them south of Darlington. For ten seconds in imagination, I was up there on the footplate, closing the regulator for the cruise into the station. I tried to recall from my firing days the braking procedure for an engine of that size, and realised in panic that I could not.

  I turned about to face the river wind, the Cape of Good Hope and the man Clegg.

  Chapter Nine

  The Cape of Good Hope was a corner house looking over a wide road. On the other side, high metal gates opened on to an empty stretch of scrub that made a clear channel between two congested parts of the ironworks. The scrub led to the docks and the sea, where stood another infant of the north: a mighty, gleaming steamship, backwards-sloping chimneys giving a great impression of sleekness and speed even though it stood stationary.

  I pushed through the door of the Cape, which was not at all the smokehole I'd expected but a wide, peaceful place, church-like with a window of red and green painted glass on three sides.

  I was closely watched, as I crossed the threshold, by half a dozen blokes who all had their backs to the bar. Three sat on high stools, three stood. They were arranged somewhat like a football team posing for a photograph, and I reckoned this was half of Middlesbrough Vulcan Athletic standing before me. But they looked just as much like hospital patients as footballers: coats worn askew, shirts buttoned up anyhow or not buttoned . . . and the giant in the centre with the bandaged hand was Clegg.