“How many exits are there on the station?”
Rafferty thought for a moment before replying there were four, including the booking hall. He then ran back into his office.
Gardener turned to the remaining police constables. “You two grab a couple more constables and go and cover those exits. Which one of you is the most senior?”
“I am, sir. Colin Wilson.” The man stepped forward. He was big and beefy, built very similar to Dave Rawson on his own team.
“Okay, Colin. I want you to take the details of everyone here, including their mobile phone numbers. My team will soon be arriving, so you’ll have some more help. No one comes into the station, and no one leaves until you know exactly who they are and why they are here. If you have any spare men out there, ask them to cover the platform opposite. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gardener addressed Rafferty as he came back into the booking hall. “Have you stopped the train that’s just left?”
“Yes. In fact, if you walk out there, you should be able to see it.”
“I want you to call upon as many staff as you have and block the tracks both sides of the station. I want no more trains in or out of this place until I say so.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. I want a list of all the staff that work here, names and addresses.”
The man scurried back into his office like a mouse heading for a cheese mountain.
Gardener returned to the desolate platform. There were no trains, and very few people. Reilly had somehow managed to usher everyone into the waiting room and shut the door. He stood guard outside. Gardener glanced across to the opposite platform. The two local policemen were doing the same.
“Do you think he’s here?” asked Reilly as Gardener approached.
Gardener glanced around. “I can’t see why he’d need to be. We already know he’s using the phones to set things in motion.”
“But killers love to watch their victims die. You know that as well as I do.”
“Fair comment. So if he is, we’ll have him. No one’s getting out of here until I know who they are.”
“We have to find out who did the operation on Ronson.”
“We will, believe me,” said Gardener.
The SIO noticed that one of the people in the waiting room was opening the door and glancing around.
Gardener pointed. “Can you sort that lot out? Get everyone’s name and details. I’m going across that side to see if those lads can keep everyone there under control.”
Gardener used the subway to reach the other platform. He instructed the two officers there to collect information, before returning to his side of the station.
There was no doubt in his mind that Ronson, like Wilson, had been deliberately killed. He wondered if Ronson’s death had been planned first, only to be completed when an opportunity presented itself. The secretary told them that he’d had his operation at the end of June. That was over a month ago. What the hell had happened, and when?
How long had their killer been harbouring his grudge? And for what? It had to be something serious.
He was grateful to see that Steve Fenton, the CSM, was standing on the platform when he returned.
“Steve, good to see you.”
“What happened?”
“It’s Wilfred Ronson, the solicitor.”
“I gathered that much. I think I’ve seen him before.”
“We came to meet him off the train. Neither Sean nor I could work out whether or not he was implicated, so we needed to talk to him. His secretary told us this morning that he’d had heart surgery at the end of June.”