Free Europe at Midnight by Dave Hutchinson

watched him trying to remember. “I’ll check,” the Superintendent said.
    “Thank you,” said Jim.
    “And no sense that there was anything out of the ordinary on the bus?” DS Collins asked.
    “No,” said Ross.
    “Until you get to Camden Town Station.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Could you tell me what happened?”
    Ross settled back comfortably in his chair. “There are always quite a few people wanting to get on at Camden Town,” he said. “I couldn’t see anything because some girls in burkhas were standing in front of me, but I heard the sound of people getting on and touching their Oyster cards and phones on the reader at the front of the bus.”
    “A beeping sound,” Collins suggested.
    “That’s right. A beeping. Occasionally that double-beep you get when someone doesn’t have enough money on their card or the reader hasn’t scanned it properly.”
    “A double-beep.”
    “Yes. So, a few passengers get on, then I hear this double-beep. Then again. Then again. Like whoever it was is swiping his card on the reader again and again. Then it stops and I hear someone talking to the driver.”
    “Saying what?”
    “I don’t know; everyone around me was talking too. All I heard was voices down at the front of the bus. Then this guy started shouting.”
    “Shouting at the front of the bus?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you made the assumption that this was the person who was having trouble with their Oyster card.”
    “I didn’t have to make any assumptions. He started shouting about how he’d just put some money on the Oyster and there must be something wrong with the reader. The usual kind of guy. Probably trying to get on without paying, you know?”
    Collins blinked at him. “Did you see this person?”
    “Not right then. The girls in burkhas were in the way.”
    “But you heard his voice.”
    “The whole bus heard his voice.”
    “And that sounded like...?”
    “Angry. Angry man. English accent. London accent, I guess. He was shouting at the driver, something about a book of discretionary tickets the driver had that he could give passengers or something.”
    “And the driver did...?”
    “I couldn’t hear his voice properly. Whatever he was saying just made this guy angrier and angrier. At one point he shouted, ‘Maybe I’d have more luck if I blacked up.’”
    “And you took this to mean...?”
    Ross smiled. “The driver was from an ethnic minority. I took it to mean that the guy thought if he himself seemed to be from an ethnic minority, he might get given a break.” When Collins didn’t comment on this he said, “Anyway, the driver turned the engine off.”
    “Why?”
    “I dunno. Ask him. I guess he wanted the guy off the bus and he wasn’t going anywhere until that happened.”
    “And did that work?”
    “No. All it did was get the other passengers angry. Some of them started ringing the bell to be let off. Some of them started shouting at the guy to get off. You know. London commuters.”
    “And what happened then?”
    Ross shrugged. “There was kind of a standoff for a minute or two. The guy kept shouting about this book of tickets, the driver kept saying stuff I couldn’t hear properly. Then he opened the rear doors and people started to get off and get other buses.”
    “But you didn’t.”
    “Are you crazy? I had a seat. You get on at Camden, it’s standing room only until Archway.”
    “I wouldn’t know, sir.”
    “Where do you live, Sergeant?”
    Collins looked at him. “How many people got off the bus?”
    If Ross felt rebuffed, he didn’t show it. “Half a dozen, a dozen. Mostly the standing guys.”
    “So without them your view must have improved.”
    “Sure.”
    “Enough for you to see the shouting person at the front of the bus?”
    “Oh yeah, enough for that.”
    “Could you describe him?”
    “White guy. Late twenties. Sandy hair. Cropped sandy hair. Kind of rangy. Lean, you know? Thin, pinched face. Wearing a sort of black leather blouson