Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  “No. Well, that is to say, not exactly, at the moment. Though we have had a great deal of interest.”

  “I think there would have to be a great deal of flexibility on price for me to be interested.”

  “How much flexibility, Mrs Walker?” This was the tricky part. Too low a figure and they would not treat her seriously; too high and it could make the whole project unviable. Just then, the other phone rang, startling Marnie in her concentration. She moved her hand to pick it up, letting it ring twice before lifting the receiver.

  “Excuse me just a second, please,” she said to Mr Dyson and spoke into the other phone.

  “There’s someone called Anne on the line for you, Marnie. Shall I ask her to ring again later?”

  “No. I’d better take the call. Put it on hold for a moment.” She turned back to Dyson, but before she could speak, he broke in.

  “Mrs Walker, I do think we ought to put an offer to Mr Fletcher. He’s been very patient.”

  “Patient? I wasn’t aware that I was holding him up. Is he under some kind of pressure?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just that we thought you undertook to act following your visit.”

  “Undertook to act? I said I’d think about it. But let’s face it, the place is virtually a ruin. It’ll cost a fortune to rebuild it.”

  “Would you be thinking of an offer, say five per cent less than the asking price?” Marnie did a calculation. No chance. It was hopeless. She saw the whole thing slipping away. Now she had nothing to lose.

  “More like twenty!” she muttered. “Look, I’ll try to get back to you later this morning. I really must go now.” Dyson said he would be in his office till lunchtime and they hung up.

  “Anne, I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No problem, Marnie. I didn’t mean to butt in. How are you? I saw you on the television news last night.”

  “Fame at last! Actually, it was a pleasant occasion. I met Jack Hadley again and an old boy who’d known Old Peter.”

  “And Sue Dutton,” said Anne.

  “Sue Dutton?”

  “Yes. She’s a journalist with a magazine. She rang me and said you’d given her my name. She wants to meet me and see my room for an article.” It all came out in a rush.

  “Of course,” said Marnie. “She was Sue Brownlow when she worked here. So now you’re going to be in an article?”

  “Fame at last!” Anne laughed. “I must let you get on, but I wanted to tell you my news, and thank you.”

  Marnie had scarcely put the phone down and was wondering what would happen next with Glebe Farm, when it rang again.

  “There’s a Mr Lampard, I think it is, for you, Marnie. It’s not a good line.”

  “Don’t you mean Willard? Anyway, put him through, thanks.” The line clicked. “Marnie here, good morning.”

  “You sound as if you were expecting me to call.” The voice was low, cultured and vaguely familiar, though the background noise of traffic made it indistinct. Marnie struggled to attach a name to that voice and frowned into the receiver.

  “I’m sorry, there’s a lot of interference on the line.”

  “Yes. I’m in a phone box and obviously you weren’t expecting me to call. It’s Ralph Lombard. You’ve probably forgotten our meeting last year.” Forgotten! thought Marnie. How could you forget pulling someone out of the canal at dead of night, someone who had attempted to commit suicide? Ralph Lombard was not the sort of person it was easy to forget.

  “No, of course not. I just thought you were a client I was expecting to ring me. Where are you?” The traffic noise increased in volume as if he had turned his head towards the road.

  “I can’t see a street name, but I’m somewhere in Little Venice.”

  “Any other clues?”

  “Well, I’m near the tube station and the phone box is full of visiting cards advertising all sorts of exotic personal services. It gives a whole new meaning to the expression, strapped for cash.” Marnie could picture the cards, probably printed on bright yellow, illustrated with highly fanciful drawings of voluptuous young women in fishnet tights. She laughed at Ralph’s joke, though she had always found the cards rather sad.

  “It’s nice to hear from you. What brings you to town?”

  “A meeting of external examiners, and then I’m looking at a boat. I got an early train to Paddington and walked over to see it before the proper inspection.”

  “You’re thinking of buying a boat?”

  “Yes. You might remember we talked about the idea once.” Marnie recalled him mentioning a sabbatical. “Oh, my phonecard’s running out. Are you around at lunchtime by any chance? Could we meet?”

  “Twelve thirty?” suggested Marnie.

  “At the phone box by the tube station?” said Lombard.

  “Fine. If you’re not there, I’ll know where to find you.” Lombard was cut off. Marnie in her office reached for the Filofax. Lombard in his phone box pondered what she had said, caught sight of the bright yellow cards and chuckled.

  *

  “Marnie, hallo, you’re very punctual. Good to see you.” He wore a charcoal grey double-breasted suit, a striped shirt in maroon and white and a tie of deep burgundy. His black shoes were hand-built by Northampton craftsmen. Dr Ralph Lombard, Reader in economics and political science and Fellow of All Saints College, Oxford, did not look like the usual academic. One reviewer had said of him grudgingly that his writing was as elegant as his clothes.

  They settled for a small Italian restaurant in a side street not far from Sally Ann’s mooring and took a table by the window. Lombard noted, but did not comment on, Marnie’s appearance. She was wearing a dark blue and green striped jacket over a white blouse buttoned to the neck and a short navy blue skirt.

  “Tell me about the boat and your plans,” she said, as the waiter poured red San Gimignano into their glasses.

  “It’s quite simple. The university has granted me a year’s sabbatical from the end of the Lent Term. I intend to write a book. You gave me the idea of taking time to travel. Since we last met I’ve thought about living for part of the year on a narrowboat. That’s it, really.” They chinked glasses.

  “So you’re free from Easter?” He nodded. “And you’ve looked me up to advise you on choice of boats,” said Marnie. It was a statement, not a question. “Well, I’m not as expert as some, but I know what to look for. Whatever you choose, you’ll need a survey by an engineer to be certain that it’s all right.”

  “Yes. Something like Sally Ann would suit me fine. The boat for sale in Little Venice is rather similar.” Marnie knew of several boats that were for sale, and they spent some time discussing their various merits over fettucine and crespelle.

  “Little Venice is like a separate town tucked away all by itself,” observed Lombard. “I’d never been here before today.”

  “This is positively a metropolis compared with Little Venice the other side of the towpath railings,” said Marnie, turning her head in the general direction of the canal. “There’s almost no contact between the people on either side of the fence.”

  “You make it sound like the divided communities in Belfast,” said Lombard in a quiet voice. Marnie looked up sharply.

  “I think it’s rather different,” she said quickly. “There’s no animosity between the people here.” The sight of the police vehicles across the motorway flashed across her mind.

  “I often wonder if there is really so much animosity between all the people in Northern Ireland at the human level,” said Lombard. “All organised communities tend to be prone to some kind of conflict within themselves, divisions in society. Erecting physical barriers does little to bring people together. Sorry, I’m being boring. Conflict is one of my things.”

  “Not at all,” said Marnie. “It’s something that worries me a lot, too. At the moment I’m thinking of moving out of London and buying a place in a village beside the Grand Union about fifty miles north. It’s a pleasant place, but there are stra
nge undertones and I’m not quite sure what to make of them. The owner of the property says the village is cursed and sometimes you’d think the Civil War was still going on.”

  “Barriers,” said Lombard. “I shouldn’t imagine they’d affect you as a newcomer. Of course, you’d always be regarded as an outsider, however long you lived there.”

  “But I always thought villages were friendly places. It’s like that in Little Venice. Couldn’t be friendlier … on the canal side.”

  “Yes, but they’re different,” said Lombard. “The boat people’s world is nomadic. I experienced that kind of hospitality from you last year. It was like meeting a Bedouin in the desert, or coming to an oasis. Nomads don’t pry into each other’s lives. They don’t own, they just are. In a permanent village there’s a tendency to know about your neighbours and sometimes you can know more than is good. Introduce an element of conflict into such a world and you have a dangerous mixture. Northern Ireland, the Civil War, religious rivalries, clan feuds; they’re all the same thing.” Marnie sat back in her chair as the waiter hovered with the menu. They ordered coffee.

  “You know, I saw the road block on the motorway yesterday, after the van blew up,” said Marnie. “It all seemed very sinister, how the police were on the scene immediately, keeping everyone away from the incident. It was almost as if they were trying to hide something from us.”

  “They’d say they were just trying to protect the public. The police have two problems. First, they’re close to the criminal elements they fight against. They are both sides of the same game, so both are tainted by it, in different ways, of course. Second – sorry to sound like a tutorial, Marnie – they’re often one step behind society, enforcing existing laws that some people may not accept.”

  “That’s why pinkos like me are suspicious of them,” said Marnie. “Whenever we protest about something we see as bad, like nuclear weapons or industrial pollution, it’s the police who line up against us. A far cry from friendly P.C. Plod we learnt about as children.” The waiter arrived with coffee and beamed at Marnie.

  “We saw you on TV last night, Marnie. It was very nice, the drawings, your speech.” He put down two glasses of liqueur beside the coffees. “A little glass of Amaretto, on the house.” He gave a slight bow.

  “That’s very nice of you, Luca.”

  “Is good to have some nice news for a change.” He smiled broadly at Marnie, bowed at Lombard with a muttered “Signore” and withdrew. After the direction their conversation had been taking, Marnie now felt a surge of warmth at this kind gesture. She picked up the glass and took a sip. Rich almonds.

  “He’s quite right,” said Lombard. “I saw you as well. It was a charming speech. I hope that doesn’t sound patronising.”

  “Is that what made you think of coming to see me to help you with the boat?”

  “I didn’t come to see you because of the boat,” said Lombard. “The boat was a coincidence. My reasons were purely personal.” He sipped the Amaretto. “I’ve often thought about you since we met. I only wish the circumstances had been different.” Marnie shrugged. “Tell me,” he continued. “Did you find things had changed for you as a result of your sabbatical? Were things better when you returned?”

  “The job was much the same, I suppose, but I saw things differently, I think.”

  “Your plan to move out of London, is that because you still feel restless? Did Sally Ann contribute to that?”

  “Sally Ann made me feel more independent, more capable, perhaps less willing just to fit in as part of someone else’s team. Be careful, or your sabbatical might unsettle you, if you spend it on a narrowboat.” She smiled and sipped her coffee.

  “Do you have time to look at the boat I’ve come to see?”

  “I can stay for half an hour, if that would help.” They stood up.

  “Good. Tell me, Marnie, is it the custom to rename boats, or do you have to keep the name it already has?”

  “It’s up to the owner. You don’t usually change, but I think the custom is to do it when the boat is out of the water. Do you have something in mind?”

  Lombard hesitated as he picked up the bill. “No, perhaps not. Mid-Life Crisis somehow came to my mind.”

  While Marnie and Lombard were viewing the boat for sale, a call was coming in for Marnie at the office.

  “I’m sorry, she’s not yet back from her appointment. Is that Mr Dyson? I thought I recognised the voice.”

  *

  As Marnie crossed the entrance hall, Jackie at the reception desk called over.

  “Oh, Marnie, your Mr Dyson rang again. He wants you to phone him as soon as possible.” Marnie acknowledged with a raised hand, murmured “My Mr Dyson” and went through to the office. As expected, Lois was standing by her desk putting the messages in order.

  “Oh Marnie, there was a call for you.”

  “From Mr Dyson,” said Marnie with a nod.

  “No, from Mr Lombard.” Marnie stopped beside the desk. “He said to say Thank you. That was all. I’ve put the other messages in the tray. There’s just one other thing, Marnie. It’s about Mr Dyson. Is there anything I can do to help?” Was there a hint of reproach in her voice? “You’ve often said how we should always try to respond to our clients quickly and, well, you seem to have difficulties in reaching him.”

  “He isn’t one of our clients, Lois. He wants me to be one of his.” Lois looked puzzled. “He’s an estate agent trying to sell me a property.”

  “That explains it,” she said. “You’re playing hard to get. Would you like to be permanently out?”

  “No. I’m just trying to make up my mind.”

  “Right,” said Lois. “I didn’t mean to pry.” The phone rang. It was her direct line. She had the strangest feeling that she could guess who it was.

  “Mrs Walker? It’s Tony Dyson again. I’m glad I’ve managed to contact you. Do you have a moment to talk about Glebe Farm?”

  “It is rather difficult, Mr Dyson. You see, I work in an open-plan office, which inhibits conversation to some extent.”

  “Of course, it’s just that you are so busy, it’s not easy to get hold of you.”

  “Can we speak after office hours, perhaps?” said Marnie. Dyson did not want to let her slip through his fingers again, but realised that she might be in a difficult position. He wondered if he had not misjudged her, if he had wrongly assumed by her manner that she was the kind of client he usually handled. Perhaps she was just a clerk in a large office full of other clerks.

  “I wouldn’t want to cause you any problems with your boss,” said Dyson. Marnie prickled at this and lowered her voice.

  “I am the boss, Mr Dyson.” Dyson winced at his faux pas. Now he had lost some of the initiative. Marnie went on. “Do you have anything to report following our earlier talk?”

  “I have spoken to my client and explained that you were interested and wished to make an offer.” Dyson paused and Marnie waited.

  “I assumed you had,” she said in a relaxed tone. She could hear her heart beating.

  “Yes. Mr Fletcher would be prepared to consider a fair offer,” said Dyson. Marnie was growing tired of this game.

  “Shall we agree to speak some other time, Mr Dyson, or are you going to tell me the price he wants?” It was much more abrupt than she had meant to sound, but it put Dyson on the spot.

  “Well, you suggested a figure somewhat below the asking price, Mrs Walker.” Dyson did not like being in the position of making an offer when he was acting for the vendor.

  “Yes.”

  “My client would be prepared to accept a compromise somewhere between the five per cent reduction that I suggested and your offer of a twenty per cent reduction.” Twenty per cent reduction! thought Marnie, boggling. He had taken her seriously. She hesitated and Dyson went on. “Mr Fletcher would consider an offer ten per cent below the asking price.” Ten per cent. Marnie made a quick mental calculation. It was right on her limit. She was on the point of accepting when she thou
ght of Sally Ann. With just a little more in hand she could offer Beth and Paul a modest price for the boat, not a great deal, but a sum that took into account all the work she had done to improve her. Marnie closed her eyes and heard herself say “It would have to be fifteen per cent.”

  “Mrs Walker, that would not be acceptable to my client.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  Dyson scribbled the figure on his pad. It was almost derisory. In his mind he saw the decaying buildings and overgrown site of Glebe Farm and knew that it could only deteriorate further if it was not taken over very soon. “I’ll ask him,” he said. “I’ll phone you back as soon as I can.”

  Marnie assembled the papers to prepare for her meeting, making a real effort to concentrate. She found herself repeatedly reading the same sentence and almost jumped when the phone rang. It was Dyson again. She listened, gave the briefest of replies, ended the conversation and put the phone down. She stared at the receiver for a few seconds, picked it up and pressed three buttons.

  “Philip, can I see you for a moment?”

  In his office, Dyson put down the receiver. He looked at the figure he had scribbled. It was almost derisory, but it was better than nothing.

  8

  Beth put her head round the door of Paul’s study. “That was Marnie on the phone just then. She wants to come round tomorrow evening.”

  Paul looked up from reading a computer printout. “Anything special?”

  “I can guess what it is. Can’t you?” He shook his head and, pre-occupied by his work, returned to interpreting the columns of figures. Beth smiled to herself as she closed the door quietly behind her.

  *

  After speaking to Beth, Marnie looked in at Little Venice on her way home and found Roger Broadbent watering the plants on the roof of Rumpole. She walked along the towpath with the maximum of self-control, determined to reveal nothing of the excitement she felt at the thought of having her own place and her own business in Knightly St John. In an Oscar-winning performance, she strolled casually towards Rumpole and greeted Roger with a nonchalant “Hi!”. He stepped down from the side of the boat, put the watering can on the roof, kissed her on both cheeks and hugged her so hard her feet left the ground.