The Button Man: A Hugo Marston Novel (27 page)

But then he remembered where he’d found the phone and the wave of relief surprised him. The phone had been pushed down the side of the chair, hidden. Hidden from whomever killed him.

Hugo looked at the message again and tried to distance himself from the situation, to pretend he’d found the note at another crime scene, one where he didn’t know the victims personally. What did the words tell him?
Parse it
, he thought,
parse the message piece by piece
.

Before he could start, his phone rang. Bart.

“Hey Bart, I’m on my way home.”

“Everything OK?”

“Not really. Merlyn is missing, Pendrith is dead, and Walton is on the loose. It’s only a matter of time before we get him, but in the meantime I think he’s set his sights on Merlyn.”

“Jesus, really? I only spoke to you a couple of hours ago, what the hell happened?”

“Yeah, this is moving fast. Too fast. I saw Pendrith an hour before he was killed. He told me he was planning to disappear, but I went to his apartment and found him dead.” Hugo described the scene and could hear the scratch of Bart’s pen as he took notes.

“You sure it wasn’t suicide?” Bart asked.

Another thought struck Hugo, reinforcing his opinion that it wasn’t. “He had his passport on him. Now I think of it, I didn’t check to see the name but it’s probably a fake. It means, though, that when he told me he was planning to disappear, he meant it. Why would he carry a passport then shoot himself?

“Good point. But why would someone shoot him, make it look like a suicide, but not check his pockets?”

“Several reasons. Because the shooter’s not a pro, or because he was too busy looking for something else.”

“Such as?”

“Pendrith’s phone. Which I found, with something on it. I want your opinion.” He read the note to Bart, slowly so he could copy it down word for word.

“Reads like a suicide note,” Bart said. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but it’s definitely a . . .” He went quiet, searching for the right word.

“Confession?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“I think there’s more to it than that. Pendrith was working toward a goal, and he wasn’t working alone.”

“Walton?”

“Right. Has to be. It’s confusing because Pendrith suggests that the wrong people died. Do you read it that way?”

A moment’s silence. “I do. But what does he mean by ‘the purpose is still alive’?”

“I think that’s a direct reference to Walton, to whatever he’s doing. And I think that’s why the note is so vague, because he doesn’t want to tip his hand, give away their grand scheme and have us stop it.”

“It’s like he’s apologizing for Walton but still wants him to succeed.”

“Exactly,” said Hugo. “Smart guy, that’s why I hired you.”

“Thanks, but the ambassador hired me.”

“Shut up, Bart, and help me figure out the last line, the key to this little mess: whatever the greater good is, that’s what Walton is doing. If we can figure that out, maybe we can find him and Merlyn.”

“Agreed, but you’re the brains of this operation, so just tell me what to do.”

“I already put DCI Upton on this, but I want to know everything possible about Pendrith and Walton. Maybe work with him so you don’t duplicate, and call me when you know anything that I don’t. I’m sitting here twiddling my thumbs, so if I get twenty calls with tiny pieces of info, I don’t mind at all. Tell Upton that, too.”

“Yes, sir. Talk to you soon, I hope.”

Hugo sat back and exhaled. Good people were working hard on finding Merlyn, finding Walton, and figuring out what he and Pendrith were up to. For now, there was nothing more Hugo could do. He looked out the window as the French countryside passed by, its towns and villages invisible behind the veil of night that surrounded the train, its darkness pressing in again on Hugo and the occasional, piercing flashes of light from streetlamps and cars encouraged him to close his eyes, light and dark working together to pull him down into a welcoming sleep.

He woke to a metallic voice announcing their imminent arrival at Saint Pancras, the words echoing in his mind and not settling clearly, instead provoking a flash of panic and disorientation that the darkness outside and the stillness inside the train did nothing to dissolve.

He pulled himself upright in his seat, and the memories of the day came at him like arrows, each one a shot of alarm. He scrabbled for his phone on the little table in front of him but found only a piece of paper, folded in half. Dread rose in his throat like bile as he opened it.

It was unsigned, but there was no doubt that Harry Walton was on this train. Walton had stood right here beside him, maybe even ready to kill if Hugo had been awake.

Hugo pushed himself out of his seat, his legs stiff like boards, and he willed calmness into his body as he searched his pockets one more time for his phone, then for Pendrith’s phone. He stooped and rummaged through his overnight bag, knowing he wouldn’t find either there.

Not only was Walton on the train, but he’d taken away Hugo’s ability to let anyone know.

Hugo looked up and down the aisles, deciding which way to go. But before he could move, a sleeve of light slipped over the train and the windows filled with the columns and ironwork of Saint Pancras station. In seconds the train was still, and Hugo abandoned any thought of searching its compartments for Walton. He hurried to the door and waited, stepping out as soon as they opened, scouring the walkway for any sign of the man. The platform slowly filled with stretching and gossiping travelers, and Hugo realized that he couldn’t possibly see every compartment as it emptied, couldn’t possibly catch Walton unless . . . He cursed. Walton would have gone to the front of the train to be nearest the exit. Hugo turned and ran that way. Heads turned as he flashed by, and Hugo found his way suddenly blocked by a team of rugby players who had fanned out across the platform, burly shoulders and tree-trunk legs making passage impossible for a few precious seconds. By the time he’d bundled through them, and earned himself a few choice words in the process, Hugo realized he had another problem.

Once he got to the exit, either he had to wait there for the platform to empty, in case Walton was lingering at the back of the line of passengers, or he could keep going, keep looking for Walton, and maybe find a pay phone to call in some backup. The second option seemed far preferable. Waiting wasn’t Hugo’s idea of taking control.

He ran into the main concourse, eyes on every face, drifting past people he’d already vetted without seeing them again, brushing shoulders and bags, apologizing under his breath as anger and desperation grew.

After five minutes he abandoned the hunt, like a fisherman finally letting go of the bucking fish, too slippery to grasp. He needed a net. He found a public phone and, with some patience, managed to have the operator connect him to the US Embassy, where he was put through to Bart.

“Hugo, where are you? I’ve been calling for an hour.”

“I know, that bastard took my phone from under my nose while I slept.”

“Jesus, he was on the same train?”

“Yes, he was. And I let him get away.”

“We’ll find him,” Bart said. “You’re at the station right now?”

“Saint Pancras, yes, and so is he.”

“You want the cavalry? We can shut the place down, but it’ll take a while, I’ll have to ask the ambassador before we call the English police. I guess I could call Upton, go straight to him.”

Hugo looked around him as the lone travelers and groups of people swirled and eddied through the station. “Forget it, Bart. He’s gone by now, he has the subway, buses, other trains, taxis. All he needed was a minute’s lead, and I gave him five times that.” He ran a hand across his brow. “I’ll find a cab and come in. I assume you’ve not located Merlyn?”

“No, we haven’t. I tried calling to let you know that Upton’s having trouble finding a friendly face to sign the search warrant. I was also calling to let you know that if you head out of the station and find the taxi rank, there’s a police car waiting for you.” His voice turned apologetic. “Sorry Hugo, no rest for you just yet. Maybe you can sleep in the car.”

“To where?”

“Upton thought you’d want to be present when they finally get the warrant for Walton’s house. He said they’d wait as long as they could.”

“Where does the bastard live?”

“Some place called Walkern, just north of London.”

“Never heard of it. I’ll call you from the—dammit, my phone. Bart, track my phone. Maybe he forgot to turn it off. He has Pendrith’s phone, too, so track them both.”

“Will do. And I’ll scrounge up a new one for you, in case you don’t get yours back.”

Hugo hung up and walked outside, glad for the cold night air that nipped away his tiredness, for a few seconds at least. He spotted a burgundy Vauxhall that sat alongside the line of taxis, like a sheepdog minding its herd, the nervous eyes of the cabbies looking back and forth between it and the station exit as they waited for fares.

Hugo smiled when the rear door of the car opened and DCI Upton stepped out. They shook hands.

“A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” Hugo said.

Upton smiled. “I always thought you Yanks were more into that jurisdictional crap than we are. At least that’s how the movies make it look.”

“And God knows they show nothing but the truth.”

Upton stood to one side and ushered Hugo into the comfort of the Vauxhall’s leather seats. This was a police car for ferrying the brass, he saw, not criminals headed for lockup. “Nice wheels. Mind if I take a nap?”

“We have an hour’s drive, so be my guest.” He nodded to the driver, who turned in his seat and smiled at Hugo.

“Nice to see you again, sir. PC Agarwal, from the church in Weston.” He turned back and flicked a switch, starting the overhead light on the car. “Sirens too, sir?”

“Not until someone gets in our way,” said Upton. He fastened his seat belt and turned to Hugo. “Now, what the hell is going on? And why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

Hugo told him about the note and his phone, and about Walton being on board the train.

“An eventful day,” Upton said. “Something doesn’t make sense, though.”

“Several things don’t make sense,” Hugo said wearily. “Which one are you talking about?”

“If Walton is some murderous lunatic, why didn’t he slit your throat while he had the chance? He left a bloody note, for heaven’s sake. A note.”

“I know, and I don’t get it either. Although, even for him, killing someone on a moving train would be rash. He’d certainly get caught. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t have a weapon? It’s not like he could have throttled me, I’d have woken up and beat the crap out of him.”

Upton smiled grimly. “True enough, but if we’re right about him, the guy’s killed several people in cold blood, and I can’t imagine it’s that hard to find something heavy or sharp enough to kill a sleeping man, even Hugo Marston.”

“I agree. Maybe he knows that killing cops, or in my case ex-cops, will turn this from a manhunt into something he’ll never get out of alive.”

“Cop killers tend not to fair well once they are caught, that’s true,” Upton said. “You think that’s it?”

Hugo just shook his head. He thought for a moment and asked, “What did you find on him?”

Upton opened a briefcase at his feet and pulled out a manila folder, then switched on the light above his head. “Most of it you know. Grew up in Weston, Hertfordshire, family religious, father—”

“Skip to the recent stuff if you don’t mind, I’m still hoping for a nap,” Hugo said with a gentle smile.

“OK, well, you remember how he took a year off, after winning his little bundle in the lottery? Turns out it wasn’t to catch some rest and relaxation, at least not in the traditional sense. He went a little bananas and spent eight months in a mental-health facility.”

“When was this?”

“Three years ago. No lasting damage, and he didn’t hurt anyone. Sound relevant?”

“Hell yes. Was he committed or did he seek treatment himself?”

“He was committed. Found wandering the lanes, covered in mud, and when some local tried to help him, he started yelling and screaming about God and the church. Then, according to my reports, he just went kind of silent and brooding. For months.”

“God and the church, eh?”

“The usual subject for lunatics,” Upton said. “That and aliens.”

“Anything else?” Hugo asked.

“Not really. He bought an apartment in London with his winnings, paid his taxes, then bought this place we’re going to in Walkern, and soon after sold the family home in Weston.”

“Are the two villages close?”

“Less than five miles, I’d say. Why?”

“Curious that he’d move from the family home to someplace close by. Any friends there? Is it a fancy new house?”

“No friends, or lady friends, that I know of. And his new house is pretty much the same as his old one, just in a different village.”