Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  13

  Sunday 18 June

  “One hour,” said Marnie in a firm voice. “It’s not healthy to work all the time without a break.”

  “All right,” said Anne, switching on the computer. “But Ralph said it wouldn’t do us any harm. And we did have a trip on Sally Ann yesterday.” Marnie was standing at the window of the office barn, looking out at the grey sky and the wet cobbles in the farmyard. There had been a downpour in the night and the rain beating on the roof had woken her. She had been almost quick enough to close the windows. That was around two in the morning and it had taken her a long time to get back to sleep, lying in the dark cabin in pyjamas that were damp in patches, trying to doze off, her mind full of strange shapes scurrying round the church in wind and rain like lost souls. Eventually she had dropped off, not waking again until nearly eight. Anne was still soundly sleeping and she had waited another half hour before stirring from the bed.

  “Would you like me to take you down to see your parents?”

  “They’re not expecting me to go back this weekend. Of course, if you’d like some time to yourself …”

  “Oh no,” said Marnie. “It’s not that. I just thought you might want to have a break from our routine, that’s all. Everything would still be here when you got back. You don’t have to renounce the rest of the world completely.”

  “Well, I’d just as soon stay here, Marnie. Really. As long as I’m not in the way.”

  “That’s fine.” Marnie sat at her desk preparing for her meeting with Willards the following day. She knew from past experience that they were the kind of company who liked to be given a choice, interested in the details. She was checking the costs for the third scheme when Anne nudged her arm and put a cup of coffee on the desk.

  “Oh, thanks. I’d lost track of time.”

  “It’s gone eleven,” said Anne. “Time we were packing up.”

  “I just need another ten minutes or so.”

  “We’ve already gone on for longer than you said.”

  “But Ralph did say it wouldn’t do us any harm at first.”

  “Well, just ten more minutes, then,” said Anne in a firm voice and ducked so that the rolled-up ball of paper missed her head by inches.

  *

  “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Randall Hughes brought his sermon to a close, crossed himself and descended from the pulpit as the choir incanted a short anthem. On this, as on every other Sunday, the church was full and Valerie Paxton, sitting in the middle of the congregation, found herself wondering whether half of those present each week came only to keep an eye on the vicar and make sure he did not get up to anything peculiar during the services. The other half, including herself, were stirred, no, inspired by the whole atmosphere that he brought to the church.

  Valerie realised she was trembling inside at the power of the sermon. The vicar had taken as his theme the notion of sacrifice and woven a skilful message bringing together sacrificial rites in ancient times, the biblical scapegoat of the Old Testament and the renouncing of personal interests for the greater good of the community. He had brought his argument together in the sacrifice of the crucifixion, somehow blending history, philosophy and theology in a way that made them relevant to the everyday lives of the people living in the village.

  She suddenly realised that the congregation was singing a hymn and was surprised to notice her book open at the right page. Her husband was singing steadily in a light tenor voice that was not unpleasant, only needing to glance down at the words from time to time. He had known the hymn since childhood and the verses could almost sing themselves. As he sang, he was thinking about the cauliflowers in his vegetable garden and the terrible problem he was having with slugs. After church, he would have half an hour down there sorting them out, while Val finished getting lunch ready.

  In the second row from the front, Albert Fletcher was singing softly. These days, if he tried to sing out, his voice would give way and he would become breathless and start coughing. You had to hand it to Randall Hughes, he thought. Whatever you may say, for all his unwanted changes and his strange ideas, he really knew his job. Albert could remember vicars in that church going back seventy years. Some of them were kind to the children and organised special services where the little ones received gifts of oranges or candles. Others were the backbone of the community, for ever organising fetes and garden parties for this or that good cause. Almost without exception, their sermons were unmemorable or patronising or just plain boring. He could not honestly recall a single word from any of them.

  Now Randall Hughes, he was quite different. Even if you could not remember all the subjects he chose, you always came away from his services with an understanding of the scheme of things. He had a clear vision of how faith held the world together, gave life a meaning, and he knew how to put his message across. Watching the vicar singing the hymn with his head raised, leading his congregation like a watchful parent, Albert knew that this man would one day be a Bishop. And Albert suspected that Randall Hughes probably knew it too.

  In front of Albert, George Stubbs was booming out in his Sunday best baritone. He was conscious that he had put on weight in recent months and his Sunday suit was becoming uncomfortable, especially constricting him around the shoulders. His shirt collar seemed to grip him like a hand at his throat. For all his animosity towards the vicar, he granted that he always gave a good sermon and had a strong presence. That was one of the main problems, as far as George was concerned. The services had become focused on the vicar. He liked vicars who went over the bible stories, explaining what they meant. This one was too clever by half, always acting as if he knew more than anyone else. Always acting. He did not want a vicar who made himself centre stage all the time.

  *

  “Do you fancy exploring?” said Marnie. The rain had given way to light clouds and a cool breeze.

  “Anything is fine by me,” said Anne. They had taken delivery of some of the furniture, leaving it dumped in the office for the time being, and now they were walking through the spinney.

  “I was just wondering about putting a picnic lunch together. We could go for a drive, have a look at the county, find a National Trust place to visit, perhaps. You always get a good cream tea there.”

  “Sounds great, if you’re sure you don’t want to stay and do things here.”

  “We can organise your furniture later. It’s too pleasant to be indoors on a day like this. I think it would be nice to look further afield.”

  *

  “Depart in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

  “Amen,” murmured the congregation.

  The organ began a restrained anthem. There was a pause lasting several seconds as the congregation remained in their seats, heads bowed in private meditation, while the vicar stood beside the font at the rear of the congregation with eyes closed and hands held together at his chest. As he straightened his back and dropped his hands to his sides, the congregation began to stand and move towards the door. The members of his flock moved into the aisle, crowding together and shuffling slowly out, some of them speaking in muted tones, some exchanging nods with neighbours, all of them seeming to be still under the spell cast over them by their vicar who waited now outside the porch to send them on their way.

  14

  The vicar had been away from the village for nearly two weeks. Mrs Lockyer who kept house for him told everyone that he was in Stafford, visiting his father who was very ill and may not live. Few believed her, for she was the vicar’s devoted servant. For her, he could do no wrong. Some said that the vicar had been seen in Yore, others said Northampton. A drover thought he had seen him in Sibbertoft, at the other end of the county beyond Guilsborough and Naseby. All these were far from the road to Stafford.

  It was on a warm Tuesday afternoon that Sarah Anne saw him return. She had been to visit Margaret Tarry, still weak in her sickbed, and was walking home filled with concerns for her neighbour. The
vicar rode slowly down the high street. He was dusty and, to judge by the state of his horse, he had travelled far. Both looked worn and weary, the vicar unshaven, his face gaunt under the shade of his hat. He touched its brim as he passed her and she stopped to bend her knee. He rode on without speaking. For all he was fatigued from his journey, he sat upright in the saddle, his shoulders square and his back straight.

  Sarah watched him progress away from her, thoughts of Margaret Tarry now gone from her mind. She saw only the black cassock and the grim, determined expression on his face. She saw the eyes glance briefly towards her as he touched the edge of his hat with one long, pale, elegant hand.

  *

  Monday 19 June

  “I reckon if I set off by nine-thirty I should be able to do it without having to break the land speed record.” Marnie was assembling everything needed for the meeting at the Irish Navigator. “So you slept okay in your new room?”

  “Fine. You weren’t too lonely on Sally Ann?”

  “No, but I’m sure Dolly was snoring in the night. Let me know if there’s anything you need for the room. I can get it on my way back.” Together, they had made a comfortable bedroom for Anne in the hayloft, with reading lamp, cupboard and bedside table. The narrow ventilation slit made it gloomy in the daytime, but at night it was cosy with the lamp lit and oriental rugs spread over the floor.

  There were too many samples of fabrics and wallpapers to fit in Marnie’s briefcase and she gathered them together in a portfolio. Anne was perched on a stool ticking off points on her list. There were still forty-five minutes to go before Marnie’s departure.

  “Let me know when you’re ready for me to tell you about the things on my list,” said Anne.

  “Just give me a minute or two and I’ll be with you. Ah, what’s this?” Marnie pulled a small book out from among her papers. It was the history of the church. She put it on the desk and returned to her task. Finally, she put her Filofax and the office file on top of the other documents. “That’s it. Right. The list. Fire away.”

  “Would you like a coffee before you go?”

  “I’ll get one there, I expect. “

  “You were going to look in at the school on your way out and tell the head you’ll have the children here to visit Sally.” Anne gave Marnie a sheet of paper. “That’s the programme we drew up for her.”

  “Great. I hope she likes it.”

  “We just have to agree a date,” said Anne.

  “I’ll ask her to let us know as soon as she can.”

  “The vicar’s calling round some time this afternoon. Do you know when you’ll be back?”

  “Probably soon after lunch,” said Marnie. “I should be here in good time.”

  “Okay. You’re due to send Willards an invoice this week. It’s mentioned in a letter in the file, for the two restaurants near Leicester. And they ought to start talking to you about the redecoration of head office.” Marnie made a note. Anne continued. “They may want to start the project for the new restaurant at the Grand Union Marina. It’s on their planning list. I think your associate designer may already have some ideas about that. It’s in a very historic position.”

  “Historic?”

  “It’s the centre of the whole canal system.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Marnie. “It’s just along from … associate designer?” She looked up from her notes. Anne was smiling. Her impish face and short hair made her look more childlike than ever. “Some ideas did you say?”

  “A few,” said Anne.

  “We’d better have a look at them when I get back, then.”

  Anne’s smile broadened and she returned to her list. “I’ll do the invoice and a covering letter while you’re out. Would you like me to deal with the wall planner and fill in some dates?”

  “Not much to put on it yet,” said Marnie, “but we have to start some time.” She glanced up at the clock. “I’d better get ready.”

  Anne enjoyed learning from Marnie, watching her meticulous approach to every part of her work. This morning after showering, Marnie had begun the day in jeans and sweat-shirt, putting her clothes out ready for the meeting. All her good clothes were stored in a large wardrobe at the rear of the office barn, where the tang of diesel and the odour of engine oil could not reach them.

  Anne walked around the office thinking how she could improve their standard of organisation. She realised it was all a matter of detail and placed a note pad with a pencil beside each phone. She filled the paper tray in the photocopier and checked the roll in the fax machine. The message on the answerphone had not been changed since it was only used at Marnie’s flat in London. Anne listened to it and tried to work out something more suitable for the company.

  “Hallo. This is Walker Design Associates on 09 … No. They know the number already. And we haven’t chosen a name.” While she was muttering to herself the phone rang.

  “Hallo.”

  “Marnie?”

  “No. This is Anne Price. I’m her colleague.”

  “Is Marnie available?”

  “She’s out of the office at the moment. Can I take a message?”

  “Has she left for the meeting?”

  “No. Are you from Willards?”

  “Roger Brooks. Marketing manager. Can you get her to ring me before she goes? She has the number.”

  “I’ll ask her to ring as soon as possible.”

  “Right.” Gone. On the pad Anne wrote his name and looked up the number on the file. Were all business people so abrupt? He sounded under pressure. She set off for the boat.

  “Hallo, Roger?” Marnie listened, muttering and taking notes on the pad by the phone. “Already? I thought you wanted it later in the programme.” She continued muttering and scribbling. “Yes, of course it can be included. That’s fine.” She glanced over at Anne and raised an eyebrow. The conversation came to an end and she hung up. “You were right. Head office and the marina restaurant. Apparently their accountants advise them to go ahead now for tax reasons.”

  “Do you want to take the files with you?”

  “Please. It might help reassure Roger. He sounds stressed.” Marnie laughed.

  “Are clients always like that, clicking their fingers and expecting us to jump?”

  “It happens. Roger’s all right usually. He’s just under pressure. This will mean much more work for him to manage. People react differently when they’re put under stress.”

  “Are you under stress because of this, Marnie?” Anne was pulling files from the cabinet.

  “No. I’ll have the nervous breakdown later. It’s time I was off. Golden rule: never be late for a meeting, especially … if you’re a woman.” She took the files from Anne, dropped them into the portfolio and made for the door.

  “You won’t forget to look in at the school, will you?” Anne called after her.

  “Oh, God. Now I am under stress!”

  “Shall I phone for you?”

  “No. It’s okay. I’ll ring her on the mobile. Thanks. See you!”

  As Marnie backed the Rover out of the barn, Anne appeared alongside and held up a piece of paper. Marnie took it through the window.

  “School phone number,” said Anne.

  “Great! By the way, I liked the pad by the phone …” Her voice was whisked away by the burble of the engine and her hand waved out of the window as she set off. Anne could see her fastening the seat belt and keying in the number on the mobile as she bounced up the field track.

  *

  “I hope it doesn’t mean an epidemic,” said Valerie Paxton, replacing the receiver.

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s as bad as that,” said Mrs Giles. “Probably just coincidence.”

  “Well, that’s three calls already this morning. What a way to start the week!”

  “It’s not unusual,” said the head, turning to go back to her office. “A spell of fine weather, running around outside, not keeping warm enough. It’s easy for them to get a chill.” As she pushed open the d
oor, the phone rang on the secretary’s desk and she waited while Valerie took the call.

  “Yes, I know. You’re coming in this morning to talk about a visit to the boat.” She listened and the head waited for the outcome. “You’ve been held up. I see … Sorry, could you repeat that please … a programme did you say? … oh, in the car … yes, I understand.” She looked out of the window and the head followed her gaze. At that moment, across the short expanse of playground, they saw a dark blue car accelerate past in the direction of the main road. “There’s usually someone here until four-thirty, sometimes later … that would be helpful. Thank you. Good-bye.”

  “Mrs Walker,” said the head.

  “Phoning from the car. I had to wait while she changed gear.” Valerie looked slightly affronted.

  The head laughed. “I take it she’s not coming this morning.”

  “No. Held up by work. But she’s prepared a programme for the visit and she’ll try to call in later. She sends her apologies.”

  “And she’ll let us know when she’s coming?”

  “Yes. From the car on the way back.”

  “Oh well. That’s something different. We don’t get calls from people passing the window every day.” She smiled at the thought, but saw that Valerie was frowning. In fact, she had been less than cheerful ever since they arrived at school that morning, which surprised her, considering what a wonderful day it was. “Is anything bothering you?”

  The secretary shook her head. “No. It’s just that everybody’s in such a rush these days. People have to phone each other from one part of the village to another and drive through it far too fast.”

  “I’m sure it was just so as not to let us down,” said the head. “After all, we are asking her to do us a favour. This must be a very busy time for her. And I don’t think she was really going too quickly.”

  Valerie looked up at the head and for a moment there was anger in her eyes. She sighed and shrugged. “It’s just … those who want to make real contact with other people aren’t understood, nobody wants to know. It just isn’t right, that’s all.” In total bewilderment, the head crossed the room and put a hand on Valerie’s shoulder. She could not begin to imagine what was the meaning of all this, but she suspected it had nothing to do with the numbers of children absent with summer colds or Marnie Walker’s use of her mobile phone.