Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(62)

The train was accelerating. Marshall was lagging behind.

“Mars! Come on!”

“Wait, wait, wait, I don’t know how to pull myself up—”

Benedikt gripped the side of the freight door, then stretched his arm out, leaning half his body into the night. For a moment, it seemed that he wouldn’t be able to reach Marshall, that the train was pulling too far ahead and the distance was growing too great. But as soon as Marshall reached forward, Benedikt got a grip on his wrist and hauled him in without a second to spare, both of them collapsing onto the floor of the freight carriage.

“That was damn close,” Benedikt panted into the dark.

Marshall was still lying on top of him, but neither made any effort to move, too busy trying to catch their breath. The dark freight container was crammed with boxes, if the cardboard corner nudging into Marshall’s shoulder was any indication. The train resumed full speed again. It bounced once on its tracks. The door had slid itself shut, keeping out the arctic temperature outside.

Marshall grasped Benedikt’s face, smacking a dozen kisses anywhere he could.

“You are my hero,” he declared. “Plucked me right up like a mighty rescuer.”

Benedikt spluttered a laugh. Though Marshall couldn’t see him properly without any light, he felt Benedikt’s grip tighten around him, their limbs still entangled.

“I would reroute the train with my bare hands before I left you behind,” he said matter-of-factly.

“How very romantic.”

“I know.” Benedikt nudged his chin closer, taking a proper kiss. The train floor was dusty, the steam engine howled like a wolf’s call around them, but Marshall leaned into the embrace without caution, taking the few seconds when they could pretend that the rest of the world had fallen away. Benedikt kissed like he painted: with consuming, frantic inspiration before slowing down to find the details and pinpoints.

They drew apart reluctantly. The door thudded to their side, its broken latch swinging back and forth against the exterior, beating out a rhythm.

“The next stop is Krasnoyarsk,” Marshall said, picturing the approximate map of the Trans-Siberian Express. “It could be a full day before we arrive and get out of this freight container.”

Benedikt sighed. He tilted his head back with a thud, and given he was still lying on his back, it created a rather painful-sounding impact with the wall behind him.

“Start thinking hard, then,” Benedikt said. “Because we are right back to square one.”





11


It wasn’t until after a new night fell, a whole daytime passing at a snail’s pace, that the train started to slow again. Five minutes later, it came to a complete stop.

“Are you two alive in there?”

The door thudded open. Benedikt sat up, nudging Marshall out of his doze. Only moonlight illuminated the station’s surroundings as Vodin hauled himself into the freight carriage, peering around as if he had expected to find something other than two pseudo-investigators crammed up with the boxes, covered in day-old dust.

“Debatable,” Benedikt replied wryly, checking his wristwatch. “Have we arrived in Krasnoyarsk?”

“Yessir.” Vodin crossed his arms. He sounded slightly winded from his brisk walk over from soft-class—he must have hurried out as soon as the train stopped, because it had been less than thirty seconds before his appearance. “Did we get an escapee?”

Benedikt grimaced, ending the back-and-forth volley of questions. He got himself onto his feet, dusting off his trousers to put some semblance of respectability into his appearance. Marshall, on the other hand, stayed sprawled where he was, his collar pulled loose and his shirt unkempt.

“Eduard Kozlov made a run for it, but he isn’t involved in the case we are concerned with.” Out loud, that didn’t sound as persuasive as Benedikt would have liked. He continued: “Or rather, he is guilty of leaving that threat on the mirror because our investigation interrupted his drug trafficking, but he didn’t put the pen in Popov’s throat.”

Vodin contemplated the conclusion. His mouth opened.

“So yes,” Marshall said from the floor, speaking ahead of Vodin, “we no longer need the handwriting samples.”

Without the engine running, the train was alarmingly quiet. Each lull in the conversation emphasized the rustling air outside or the scatter of a pebble being kicked across the floor.

“Correct me if I am wrong,” Vodin said slowly, “but you are saying you cannot investigate the murder further?”

They had tried their best. Benedikt and Marshall had thrown the wildest ideas at each other, spent that whole day in the freight carriage thinking about every possible motive someone could have to kill Popov. It was easy enough to come up with those possibilities, but without evidence, each motive was nothing more than fiction.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Marshall replied defensively. “We must be missing something, or—”

Vodin shook his head. “It is irresponsible to keep the train driving if there is no answer in sight. I understand the risk of the culprit escaping, but I must bring in the police.”

“But—”

“I have already made contact here,” Vodin continued, not letting Benedikt finish his protest. “They cannot get a force out at this hour, unfortunately, so they have passed the summons on to Irkutsk, and we will be stopping. The police there are good.”