Last Train to Lime Street

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Last Train to Lime Street

Sixty-year old Bob Fraser had grown up with a single-minded ambition. As he proudly replied to anyone who asked the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he'd say, “An engine driver.” From the age of five, he'd been obsessed with trains and the railways in general. Driving a train was his single-minded obsession and nothing would prevent him fulfilling his sole ambition. He'd fulfilled his ambition by the time he reached his twenty-fourth birthday and in the intervening years, he'd driven virtually every type of locomotive seen on the railways of Britain.

Now, he sat at the controls of the last train of the day from Manchester Piccadilly to Liverpool Lime Street. The Type 155 'Sprinter' diesel multiple unit, built by Metro Cammell, and capable of a maximum speed of 75 mph, was one of the most frequently seen locomotive units on the British Railway system and though not quite as large and powerful as some of the locos he'd driven over the years, he was happy in his work and no matter what he was asked to drive, as long as he could feel and hear the vibration and the 'clickety-clack' of the train as it moved along the permanent way, Bob was in his element. In all his years at the controls, he'd never had an accident and was confident he'd reach his impending retirement with his perfect record intact.

Now, just four miles from Lime Street, he had slowed his train as he passed through Mossley Hill station, bang on time. As he cleared the platform he increased speed slightly as he approached the bridge that carried Rose Lane over the railway just a few yards from the station. Suddenly, in the locomotive's headlights, designed for illuminating the tracks directly ahead of the train, his eyes caught a momentary sight of an object falling from the bridge, directly in front of his train. With little or no time to apply the emergency brakes, Bob did so anyway, in a forlorn hope of avoiding disaster. A sickening thud quickly told him he'd been wholly unsuccessful in his attempt. As the train slowed, Bob felt the awful sensation of the thing that has fallen under his train being dragged along under his locomotive for at least a quarter of a mile as he brought the two-coach unit to a halt. Despite not having had a clear view of the falling object, Bob's instincts told him he had just struck a human being and dragged the body along under his train.

As the train came to a halt, Bob took a moment to compose himself before daring to open the driver's door to inspect the damage his train must have caused to the unfortunate person who had fallen under the wheels of his train. As he stepped down from the cab, he was joined by Ray Warren, the conductor, who'd guessed their train had hit an obstacle, and who'd leapt from the rear carriage the second the train stopped. Ray had shouted to the thankfully few passengers on the train to stay on board as he attempted to ascertain the cause of the hold up to their journey. He had to hope they'd obey his instruction.

“What the f**k was that, Bob?” he asked the driver.

Even in the dark, Ray could see that the driver's face was ashen, and it looked to him as if Bob was about to be sick.

“I think we hit someone, Ray,” he managed, before falling silent as he felt the bile rising again. “I saw something fall from the bridge and then felt the thump as we hit it.”

Ray Warren switched on the large torch he was carrying and together the two men began searching the front and the underside of the two-car multiple unit. Seeing blood on the front left side buffer, they proceeded to carry out their search, bent almost double as the torch picked out the darkened underside of the train.

“What's this?” Ray asked, seeing something hanging from the rear bogie of the driving unit.

Peering along the beam of the torch, Bob looked closely and then almost jumped back as his eyes focussed on the unmistakable sight of a human arm, neatly sheered off at the shoulder, sliced neatly by one of the locomotive's wheels.

“Oh f**k,” he exclaimed and with that single expletive spoken, he rushed to the side of the tracks, where he promptly vomited.

Ray left him to it, giving him the respect and dignity that would allow him to do what he had to do without adding any fuss to what a nightmare scenario for the two men was already. As Bob threw up the contents of his stomach, a head appeared from the rear door of the leading carriage and a voice called out, “Hey, what the hell is happening here? Why have we stopped?”

“Please, remain on the train,” the guard/conductor called to the man. “We have an emergency situation to deal with here.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Just, please, stay on the train. We'll give you more information as soon as we can.”

Bob completed his retching and vomiting and stood up, ready to re-join his colleague.

“Are you okay?” Ray asked the driver.

“Not really,” was Bob's reply as the two men resumed their search. Within seconds, Ray felt, rather than saw, something to his left and shone his torch on the clump of bushes that grew beside the tracks.

“Oh, s**t,” he blurted out, followed by “Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

In the bushes, they could clearly identify what remained of a human being, obviously thrown to the side when the brakes had been applied and the wheels had momentarily locked, sending it flying up and out from under the rear bogie to land where they now saw it, mangled and bloody.

Bob retched again but his stomach contained nothing more to throw up.

“Get on the blower, Ray. Call it in, now!”

Ray Warren lost no time in calling in to the Northern Rail Operations Centre in Liverpool, who gave orders for him and Bob to remain with the train and ensure no passengers left before the police arrived. The ops centre would notify the British Transport Police immediately and their close proximity to Lime Street would ensure the railway police would be with them in minutes. Responsible for the security and safety of those travelling on Britain's railways the BTP were on the scene within fifteen minutes, a uniformed inspector, a sergeant and two constables arriving in two cars, their sirens and flashing emergency lights dominating the scene around Mossley Hill as they screeched to a halt outside the station.

Within minutes Inspector Dave Hood had assessed the situation and sent for reinforcements. He quickly sent the two constables in the two cars at their disposal to block off both ends of the road where it crossed the bridge and from where the body had apparently fallen to the tracks. Sergeant Billy Carter took charge of the train's interior, and after gathering the smattering of passengers together in the rear unit of the train, he informed them that, with apologies, they would have to remain on board until statements could be taken from the twelve of them. He knew they could in all likelihood offer nothing useful in terms of information, but procedures had to be followed. Once Hood's small emergency response team had been reinforced by the arrival of another four constables, despatched from Lime Street, arrived on the scene, the inspector began his assessment of the situation.

It didn't take him long to realise that the body, easily identified as a male and reduced as it was to a number of separate parts, distributed either beneath the leading locomotive unit or in the bushes beside the track, was lacking one vital thing which might have helped him to arrive at a fast identification. Whoever the deceased might have been, he was completely naked. There wasn't a stitch of clothing to be found, either trapped beneath the train or on what remained of the body in the bushes.

“Do you think it's a suicide, Inspector?” an ashen-faced Bob Fraser asked the policeman after he and his men had made their initial examination of the scene.

Hood seriously doubted that the deceased would have thrown himself naked from the bridge to land purposely in front of the approaching train, so late at night. Plus, his men had found no trace of any potentially abandoned vehicle close by, where the man may have left his clothes if he had decided on such a strange method of ending his life. For now, though, he remained cautious in his reply to the driver.

“I can't say for certain at this point,” he replied. “We can only say for sure that the deceased was male, naked, and is lying in various pieces under and around your train.”

Bob immediately felt sick again at the inspector's rather graphic way of stating the facts but managed to hold it in on this occasion.

“What do we do now?” the driver asked.

“We have your statement, and that of Mr. Warren, so we'll arrange transport home for you both, though we're sure to have more questions for you later. We have brief though bloody useless statements from your passengers too, so the same applies to them. We couldn't expect any of them to have seen anything to be honest. It's a bloody bad business, that's for sure. It's not every day we have a churned-up body under one of our trains, after all.”

Bob's cheeks puffed out as he gagged again and this time he did run to the side of the tracks, where he promptly threw up again.

Once he, Ray Warren and the passengers had been dispatched to their homes or final destinations, Dave Hood, Billy Carter and their men began a further, painstaking investigation of the area, both from the bridge and the rail tracks, without, Hood lamented, finding anything he considered remotely helpful. It wasn't until the arrival of the duty police surgeon, Doctor William Nugent, who carried out a quick examination of the body parts in-situ, that Hood finally realised, almost with relief, that this was a case that might just require some specialist investigation and that he would in all probability be ordered to hand it over to someone better placed to carry out the type of investigation that was now so clearly required.

After all, he thought, suicides don't usually s***h their own throats from ear to ear before jumping from a railway bridge to land conveniently under the wheels of a passing train.