Excerpt from the book called The Frisby Waterless Murders

“No, they were a disgruntled lover – a police constable – who was jealous of the victim’s new boyfriend.”

Knowles chuckled at the irony – “That’s not the case today, at least I doubt it – I suppose you never know. Could you do me a favour; could you find Carl and bring him here so I can talk to him, just to see whether he saw anything? Thanks, Barry.”

Barry levered himself up with a slight wince and smiled at Knowles – “just an old war wound playing me up,” he said and walked off with a slight limp.

Knowles made a note to ask Barry in which conflict he’d been wounded. He phoned the search team on the train to ask them to obtain the pram from the tender and to dust it for fingerprints. After ringing off Knowles wondered whether the pram had been a deliberate act by the murderer to ensure the train stopped under the bridge so allowing the smoke to get into the carriage. It seemed unlikely to Knowles, but he couldn’t completely discount it. He glanced up and saw Barry walking back with his arm on the shoulder of his son, Carl, who was smiling at something his father was saying. Carl was around 40 and wore wire-rimmed glasses. He was still wearing his train overalls. They failed to disguise the fact that he was beginning to run to seed although his face was almost wrinkle-free.

“Hello,” said Carl jovially, holding out his hand to Knowles, “my dad tells me you have some questions for me?”

“Yes, well one to start you off, did you notice anyone on the Scoresby Road bridge when the train stopped?”

“When dad retrieved the pram, there was a car stopped on the bridge, because I noticed it when we were slowing down. I didn’t see anyone hanging around so the driver might have been still inside.”

“Indeed, or perhaps the driver had gone for a walk. Any idea on the colour of the car?”

“It was a dark colour, grey maybe but not black.”

“And it was a car not an SUV or van?”

“It was a car, Inspector, an ordinary family car.”

“Thanks Carl and thank you Barry for answering my questions. By the way, where was it you were injured, Barry?”

“I was on active duty in Northern Ireland and was shot by a sniper in Belfast one night on patrol – I was very wary about going down this particular street, but I was overruled by my superior officer; turns out my sixth sense was correct. He escaped unscathed.”

“Your superior officer – that wasn’t Major Harkness was it?”

“No, Inspector – I was in the Paras, I believe he was in The Guards.”