Vanished

40

At the steps to the ticket hall at Gloucester Road there was the stench of fried food and perfume. Groups of teenage boys, coated in their father’s aftershave and clutching identical brown McDonald’s bags, were standing beyond the gateline, laughing riotously as one of them – out of sight of the station staff – stealthily fed his fries into the credit card slot on the self-service machine. Adjacent to the group was the booth by which I’d introduced myself to Duncan Pell two days before.

But today he wasn’t there.

I scanned the hall and spotted three Underground employees: one at the turnstiles, one by the entrance and one, the closest to me, sweating under the glass-domed interior, as the sun cut down through the roof. He was about five stone overweight, his hair was matted to his scalp like he’d had a bucket of water poured over him and there were huge sweat patches under his arms. He’d be a pool of water by the time his shift ended. I moved across to him.

‘Is Duncan Pell around?’

He looked at me. Shook his head. ‘Nah, mate. Not ’ere today.’

‘Day off?’

‘Who knows with Dunc.’

‘How do you mean?’

He studied me closer this time, and then shrugged. ‘S’posed to be ’ere at five,’ the guy said, ‘but then he called in sick.’

‘That a regular occurrence?’

He was watching a couple of kids at the turnstiles now. They were laughing about something, whispering to one another, only one of them holding a ticket. He took a step towards them, ready to give chase if they jumped the barriers, but if he made it as far as the entrance before he was out of breath, it probably would have been a personal best.

I tried again. ‘Is Duncan off sick a lot then?’

But the man wasn’t really paying attention any more. ‘Look, mate, he’s not ’ere, all right?’ he said. ‘I dunno where he is.’ Then he shuffled off towards the boys.

I looked across the ticket hall towards the second guy, stationed at the main entrance, but then something else caught my attention: a staffroom door to his left, the station supervisor half in, half out, talking to someone inside. I made a beeline for it. By the time I was halfway across the ticket hall, the supervisor looked like he was about to leave. I slowed my approach, angling the direction I was coming in from so he wouldn’t spot me in his peripheral vision, and as he stepped away and headed off beyond the gateline, I slid a foot in between the door and frame, and slipped inside.

It was small and clinical: a counter on the left with a microwave, kettle and toaster on it, three tables with chairs in the middle and a calendar on the right. No windows, just the faint hum of air conditioning. Right at the back was a vending machine and a bank of nine lockers. At the table nearest to me was a woman, back to me, reading a magazine while eating a sandwich. Facing me was a man, cross-legged, newspaper open in front of him, fiddling with something on his phone.

‘Excuse me.’

They both looked over.

‘My name’s James Braddock,’ I said, taking another step towards them. ‘I’m from the British Transport Police. I was just chatting to your SS and he said it would be okay to ask you both a couple of questions. Would that be all right with you?’

They glanced between them and mumbled agreements.

I asked for their names. The woman was Sandra Purnell; the man only offered his first name: Gideon. She was fully invested in what I was saying from minute one, but he seemed more reticent. ‘I’m looking for a colleague of yours,’ I said, and moved to the centre of the room. ‘Duncan Pell.’

They looked at each other, and the woman broke into a smile. Not one with any humour, but with some insight; as if there were a lot of people looking for Duncan Pell. It seemed like she was about to speak, but then she just cleared her throat.

‘Your SS said he was ill,’ I lied.

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘And that he’s ill a lot.’

She paused. ‘I’m probably not best placed to answer this. I’m just part-time. Gid would know better than me.’

I looked at him. ‘Gideon?’

He shrugged. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Is Duncan Pell off ill a lot?’

‘Enough,’ he said.

I turned back to the woman. ‘So he isn’t a well man?’

She studied me, teetering on the brink of committing. ‘Some people reckon he’s got that – what’s it called? – PT …’

‘PTSD,’ said Gideon.

I flicked a look at him and then back to her. ‘Post-traumatic stress?’

She nodded. ‘Right.’

‘Ever remember him acting strangely at work?’

‘Personally, no.’

‘What about second-hand accounts?’

She paused again, as if gossip wasn’t something she was comfortable with. ‘I’ve just heard stories about him, that’s all.’

‘What are the stories?’

‘That he’s generally a bit rude to people. I just thought he was quiet, but one of the girls in the office told us all a story.’

‘About what?’

She coloured a little, embarrassed at what she perceived to be telling tales. ‘About how he flipped out one lunchtime when the coffee machine stopped working.’ She looked across to the counter. There was no coffee percolator there now. ‘He just went crazy.’

‘And did what?’

‘Punched a hole in the wall.’

I looked around the staffroom and spotted an uneven piece of panelling on a wall to the right of the counter. ‘He had a temper on him?’ I asked.

‘That’s just what I was told.’

Gideon moved in his seat. ‘Do you mind if I ask why –’

‘Thanks a lot to both of you,’ I said, cutting him off and heading for the door of the staffroom. And for the first time, on the back wall, I saw a corkboard, full of photos of the men and women that staffed the station. In the bottom row was Gideon, and his surname: Momodou. On one side of him was the ticket inspector I’d chatted to when I’d first been in and talked to Pell – early forties, half-moon glasses, built like a middleweight boxer; his name tag said he was Edwin Smart – on the other side was the overweight CSA I’d walked up to when I’d arrived today, looking as flustered in his official photo as he did out on the floor. Appropriately, given how little he’d wanted to help, his name was Darren Cant. But, right at the end, staring into the camera lens, no emotion in his face at all, was the only one I really cared about.

Duncan Pell.

So where are you, Duncan?

Behind me, a chair scraped against the tiled floor and I heard Momodou get up from his table. But before he got a chance to repeat his question, I opened the door of the staffroom and headed out, taking the stairs back down to the platform. As I waited for the next train to pull in, I watched him come up to the bridge and look down. I stepped behind a pillar, out of sight. About ten seconds later, I came out from behind my cover again and saw him returning to his lunch.

Then my phone started ringing.

I took it out and looked at the display. Withheld number.

‘David Raker.’

‘Raker, it’s me.’

It took me a couple of seconds to place the voice. ‘Healy?’

‘We need to talk.’