The Sentence Is Death

‘We have three classifications. Unexplained, explained and suspicious. There was certainly nothing suspicious as far as I could see, but even with the CCTV images there was no obvious reason why Mr Taylor had taken that fall.’

‘There was that witness statement,’ Salim reminded him.

‘What was that?’ Hawthorne asked.

McCoy glanced at Salim, perhaps a little annoyed that he’d been contradicted by a junior officer. ‘Just before he fell, Taylor cried out. It was only two words. “Look out!” But quite a few people heard him.’

‘Someone had bumped into him?’

‘They’d have had to bump into him pretty hard to project him out like that. He was almost horizontal when he hit the tracks. At the same time, quite a few of the people waiting for that train had had their fair share of booze. You know what it’s like after a football game.’

‘Could he have been deliberately pushed?’

‘Nobody saw anything. They just heard him shout and then it was over. But we’ve got the CCTV images. You can look for yourself.’ McCoy had a laptop computer. He swung it round so we could see the screen. At the same time, he explained: ‘The first thing I did when I got to the station was to call up Alpha Victor in Victoria. They had the images downloaded to me in no time. Thanks to them, we were able to follow him back to the Starbucks and the newsagent. We saw him arrive at the station.’

‘How did he get there?’

‘He took the Tube down from Highgate.’

Highgate. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

‘Here . . .’ McCoy hit the button.

The images we manufacture on television and the big screen are nothing like the real thing. The pictures recorded at King’s Cross Station were indistinct and grainy, as if a layer of dust had deposited itself on the lens. The camera was in the wrong position, too high up and at an oblique angle. The colours were muted, slightly off-kilter. The navy and gold of the Leeds United football strip, for example, were more nightfall and French mustard. Gregory Taylor’s death was seen at its most mundane, stripped of any art or excitement. Here one minute, gone the next.

At first, I couldn’t see the train, just a large crowd, many of them football supporters, milling around.

‘That’s Taylor there,’ McCoy said.

Sure enough, a blurry figure was making its way along the outside of the platform, close to the edge but not so close as to put himself in danger. He wasn’t in a hurry. There was no sound with the image and he was very small and far away but I got the impression that he was politely asking people to allow him to pass. Then three things happened almost simultaneously. Gregory Taylor disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the crowd just as the bright red Virgin train appeared. It had been moving quite slowly in real life but it seemed to take no time at all to reach the edge of the screen. Then Gregory fell in front of it. His back was to the camera but even if we’d been able to see it, it would have been impossible to make out any expression on his face. He was little more than a paint stroke, brushed across the canvas. He plunged down and disappeared a second time. The train continued implacably, crushing him. There was a few seconds’ delay before people realised what had just happened. Then the crowd recoiled, forming a pattern like an exploding sun. I could easily imagine the screams.

‘These are from the camera on the front of the train,’ McCoy said.

The same sequence but seen this time from the driver’s point of view. The tracks stretched out ahead. The waiting passengers were over to the right. Then something – it could have been anything – scythed through the image. That was Gregory Taylor in the last second of his life. The driver might have hit the brakes but the train didn’t seem to slow down.

I had just watched a man die.

McCoy closed his laptop, folding the lid down. ‘The coroner at King’s Cross gave us permission to move the body and he was taken off to the nearest mortuary. I’ve handed the file to the Fatality Investigation Team and of course there’ll be an inquest. But in all honesty, I can’t see any evidence of foul play. I’m ninety per cent sure it was an accident. Just one of those things.’

‘Did he have enemies?’ Salim asked. ‘Is that why you’re investigating?’

‘He may have been involved in a murder that took place in Hampstead the next day,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Well at least he’s one suspect you can cross off your list,’ Salim muttered, reflectively. ‘He wouldn’t have been up for anything.’

We left the offices and walked out to the area in front of the concourse. As soon as we were in the fresh air, Hawthorne lit a cigarette. I could see him turning over everything he had just heard. There were times where he reminded me of a scientist on the threshold of a great discovery or an archaeologist about to open a tomb. He showed almost no emotion but I could feel his energy and excitement.

‘What do you think?’ I asked.

‘He was in Highgate.’

‘Maybe he’d come to London to see Davina Richardson.’