by McNeir, Leo
“Toni agreed not to go the police, Marnie, on my advice. You may be right about her reasons. But I should have insisted. Better than anyone else, I knew about the tensions here, about the atmosphere.”
“You couldn’t know what would happen, Randall.”
“That’s not the point. It did happen. And I know the real reason I urged her not to report the situation was because I didn’t want there to be any trouble in my patch. There was someone out there prepared to do violence and I wanted to hush it up. And now Toni’s dead.”
“Randall, I think you should try to see things objectively. You’re upset. We’re all upset. I feel quite desolate about it. I didn’t tell them everything about the vandalism because I thought it would seem foolish, all that hatred going back hundreds of years. Toni wanted a good start and so did you. None of this has anything to do with what happened.”
“I can’t expect you to understand, Marnie. There’s a depth of feeling below the surface here. I’ve lived with it. It’s buried deep in this community.”
“I’ve lived with it, too. Only in the last month or two, I agree, but I found the gravestone, I saw the destruction and I know about Sarah Anne Day and what happened to her.”
“What did happen to her?” said Randall.
Marnie looked up at the beamed ceiling. “She hanged herself in here. I’m sure that’s why she wasn’t allowed a church burial.” Randall picked up the mug and sipped the coffee, staring ahead of him, hollow-eyed, far away in his thoughts. He put down the coffee and stood up.
“Thank you for talking to me, Marnie. I’m sorry you’ve been drawn into all this, very sorry.” He paused on the threshold before going out. “You know, I have the strangest feeling, as if the murderer was the same person both times. It was the same hatred.” He walked over to his car and drove away.
*
That evening, Marnie had calls from Beth, Jane and Marjorie Broadbent. When she turned out the light in bed, her last thought was to be glad that Anne had not phoned. With any luck all this would be over by the time she returned.
*
Wednesday 2 August
The police were soon back at Glebe Farm. Bartlett and Marriner drove into the yard shortly before nine the next morning while Marnie was talking over detailed drawings with the builders. They were standing in cottage number one, which was already beginning to feel like a house again.
“If it was me …” the foreman began. Marnie waited. “Your visitors are back, seems like.”
“Go on, Bob. What were you saying?”
“Well, if it was me, I’d be keen on making a dogtooth pattern in the brickwork under the eaves. It just means setting the bricks in at an angle. It used to be used a lot in these parts. You can see it on the front of the farm house.” Outside, the car doors were slamming in the yard. Marnie walked with Bob to the front door of the cottage and nodded to the police. She looked up at the eaves of the main farm house and turned back to the foreman.
“Good idea, Bob. Let’s go for it. Will it add to the cost?”
The foreman shook his head. “No. But it’ll make a nice job of it.”
“Yes, it will. Thank you.”
In the office barn the detectives declined coffee and remained standing. Bartlett began the questioning. “Can you tell us why you were parked opposite the vicarage on Saturday just before midnight?” Marnie paused before replying. She was determined to give full answers to every question. “You were seen by some neighbours, Mrs Walker. Who were you phoning?”
“Phoning? Oh, yes. I was ringing my answerphone to see if there were any messages.”
“But you were only two minutes from home. Or were you planning to be out much longer?”
“I’d just come back from London and I saw a light on in the vicarage. If there’d been an urgent message from Toni I would’ve knocked on the door. There was no message. I decided it was too late to call on her and continued home. I hope that answers your question.”
“Do you have a typewriter, Mrs Walker?” This time it was Marriner.
“Of course. Though strictly speaking, it’s not a typewriter as such. We have a shared computer that we use for word-processing, among other things.”
Marriner produced Toni’s note from his pocket. It was in a cellophane envelope. “You recognise this note. Did you type it, Mrs Walker?”
“Of course not. That’s Toni’s note. She sent it to me.”
“You’re quite sure about that?”
“You know I am. Anne would confirm that, if she was here.”
“But you say she’s in Scotland with her family. And you have no idea where they’re staying. Do you know the make or number of their car, Mrs Walker?”
“I have no idea, though I expect it’s a Vauxhall of some kind. Her father used to work in one of the car plants.”
Marriner held up the note. “Do you notice anything about this note?”
Marnie studied it through the cellophane. “Do you expect to find a chip in the “t” and the lower case “o” out of alignment?” she said wearily. She was saddened to think they were talking as if all this was some kind of whodunit, rather than the death of a friend.
“Do you notice anything?” he repeated.
“There’s no spacing between the sentences,” said Marnie. “Looks like it was typed in a hurry.”
“Yes. Good. And the paper?”
Marnie strained to see if there was anything remarkable about it. “Plain white copying paper. It seems ordinary enough to me. The sort you find everywhere.”
“What about the typeface?”
She peered at it closely. “No serifs. Arial?”
“Very good!” said Bartlett. “Or is it … very familiar?” He turned to the computer on Marnie’s desk. The monitor glowed blue with goldfish swimming across it. He pressed one of the keys and the image changed to a screen filled with text, a specification listing colours and materials, the words framed by toolbars, buttons and icons. In a blue band at the top was the title: Microsoft Word - WILNAV07.DOC. Above the text in the font box was the name Arial. “Would you mind typing something for me, Mrs Walker? Would you please copy the note.” She quickly opened a new file on the computer and typed. “Can you print it off for me, please?” She pressed the buttons and the printer by Anne’s desk whirred into life. The job was completed in a few seconds and Bartlett took the sheet of paper from the tray. “You did that very well, Mrs Walker. I noticed you’re not what I would call a trained typist, but you were quite fast and accurate.” Once again Marnie felt as if they were judging a child who was asked to perform.
“It’s part of my job to write documents. And I see what you’re getting at. But a lot of people have word-processors and use this kind of paper.” Bartlett held it up to the light.
“The vicar had an old dot-matrix printer,” he said. “Her machine was an Amstrad, years old, and her only font had serifs.” He stepped towards her and this time she did not move back. “What would you say, Mrs Walker?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “I’d guess that note was probably typed on my machine, printed on my printer using my paper.”
“So would I. And to make sure, we’re going to take away both notes for comparison.”
“Mr Bartlett, it seems obvious that Toni dashed off a quick note when she came to take Anne to the bus station. It’s no mystery.”
“While we’re here,” said Marriner, “I’d also like to borrow the black hair-brush you keep on the boat.”
“That’s only used for brushing the cat,” said Marnie.
“Fine.”
*
Village life began to settle back into its usual routine, though the sense of shock hung in the air like an autumn mist. In the shop and on street corners people spoke about the death of Toni Petrie in hushed voices. This was partly out of respect, partly out of horror at what had happened and partly from the unspoken thought that someone in their midst had committed murder. The attention that Marnie was receiving from the po
lice was noticed by everyone, but nobody so far openly speculated about her being directly involved, at least nobody said as much. The gossip for which village life is infamous was curiously reticent, as if people knew that the truth would be harmful enough to their community without any extra help to speed it on its way.
Another reason was that a cloak of confidentiality had been drawn over the matter by the circumstances in which it had come to light.
Toni’s body had been discovered by Pauline Fairbrother, a woman in her mid-fifties who was responsible for the flower rota. She had gone to the church on Monday morning to change the water in the vases and had been surprised to find the door unlocked. Knowing that Toni did not like the practice of locking the church during the day, she wondered if this was part of a new policy, especially when there was no reply to her call as she went in. On her way to the vestry she came across the body lying sprawled face down at the foot of the tower steps. She had rushed forward to help, thinking that Toni had fallen down the stairs, but there was blood everywhere and Mrs Fairbrother knew at once that Toni was dead. She had hurried to the shop and phoned the emergency services before returning to be with the vicar until they arrived. The police questioned her for half an hour, praising her for acting quickly and decisively, and asked her not to reveal anything she had seen and done to a single person.
Pauline Fairbrother was only too glad not to talk about the horrific incident and in view of her seniority and the respect with which she was held in the village, nobody even attempted to draw out of her an account of the events of that Monday morning.
Molly Appleton told more than one customer how she felt like a traitor for telling the police that Marnie had been asking for Toni in the shop on Saturday. Mrs Ingram, who lived opposite the vicarage and who had seen Marnie pull up on Saturday night, agreed that she felt the same. George Stubbs was in the shop at the time. He had told the police he had talked to Marnie at the vicarage that morning. He had two abiding memories from his interview. One was of Marnie walking away from him in her well-cut, close-fitting designer jeans. That impression he kept to himself. The other was that the police were far from certain what they were looking for.
“They couldn’t fool me,” he said. “I’ve been around too long for that. I think they’re groping in the dark.”
“What do you mean?” said Molly. “Don’t they always ask a lot of questions? I thought that was how they worked.”
“It wasn’t so much their questions,” said George. “It was the way they asked them. Somehow they were too general. They weren’t trying to pin down my movements. It was as if they were trying to pick my brains. Too much did she have any enemies? Not enough where were you on the morning in question?”
“Perhaps that’s just part of their method,” said Mrs Ingram. “Anyway, I’m sure they wouldn’t suspect you, George.”
“Why not? It could be anyone in theory. Mind you, I’m quite sure they’re wasting their time pestering Marnie Walker. If I’m any judge of character, it’s got absolutely nothing to do with her.”
“I’m sure we’d all agree with that,” said Molly.
George picked up his cigars and turned to leave. “There’s been trouble in this village from long before Marnie Walker ever set foot in the place.”
*
Speculation as to exactly how Toni had died was still featuring prominently in the local press, though it had disappeared from the national media except as a post-script. The police were saying little at this stage and were evasive when asked for details by reporters.
The police presence in the village was unrelenting. By now, two days after the death of the vicar, almost every member of the community had been questioned at least once and for all they took seriously the police advice to keep calm, the initial sense of unease that followed the shock of the death had now given way to a guarded tension in the air. The village was learning to live with the presence of violent death that touched all their lives in one sense or another. Care was taken to lock doors that had never been locked before. Children were kept at home to play in gardens with invited friends, while fishing streams and ponds went neglected and bicycles gathered dust in sheds and garages. Bunches of flowers had been laid against the church gate in sympathy by people who had seen the custom on television. The village watched and waited. Some prayed.
The Bishop rang the Chief Constable to ask what progress had been made and received only the same answer as that given to the media. Enquiries were proceeding. Leads were being followed. These things took time. Meanwhile, the Archdeacon was arranging for a neighbouring vicar to take services until a new appointment could be made. He did not ask Randall Hughes to step in, even on the most temporary basis.
*
“This is getting to be a habit,” said Marnie. She was standing outside the cottages with the foreman and one of his men when the police car pulled into the yard. “What were you going to say, Bob?”
“If it was me …”
“I know. Apart from that.”
“Well, I think it would be good if we used old reclaimed slates for the roofs of the cottages. It would make them blend in with the roof of the farm house and not look like a new roof.”
“It’s a good idea,” said Marnie. “Can you get some? We’ve not planned for this.”
“That’s why I’m saying it now, me dook. A mate o’ mine’s taking down an old barn over by Charwelton. He’d let us have the slates if we wanted them. Many as we want.”
“Would it add much to the cost?”
“No dearer than buying new ones. I could send two of the lads over in the van.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Marnie. “You’re sure they match the existing ones here?”
“Yes. I had a look last night. Welsh blue slates just like these. Not as old as these, but no different to look at.”
“You take a lot of trouble, Bob.”
“Nice to make a good job of it.” Behind her, Marnie heard a discreet cough and turned to see Bartlett standing beside his car, accompanied not by the solid figure of Marriner, but by a woman neatly dressed in a dark grey jacket and skirt. She had shoulder length blond hair and would have had a pleasant face if it wore a smile.
In the office the police as usual refused Marnie’s coffee. Bartlett introduced his colleague as Detective Constable Lamb and she positioned herself, still unsmiling, near the door. Marnie wondered if they thought she might try to make a run for it.
“I’ll come straight to the point, Mrs Walker. How do you explain the vicar’s note being identical in every respect to the one you typed for us yesterday? Can you explain why your cat’s fur was found on the door of the church? Can you tell us why your footprints were found all round the tower? Where exactly is your assistant, Mrs Walker?”
“I don’t know … exactly,” said Marnie.
“You can’t answer any of my questions?” said Bartlett.
“Of course. I meant I don’t know where Anne is, apart from somewhere in Scotland. To tell you the truth, I’m glad she’s not here. I’m glad she’s out of all this. I was rather hoping you’d have sorted it all out before she came back.”
“I’m sorry if we’re not working fast enough for you, Mrs Walker.” Bartlett’s voice had taken on an edge. “How we get on often depends on how much information we’re given.” Marnie wondered about the pressure he was facing. If they were pursuing her, seriously trying to attach blame to her, they were making a big mistake. She sensed that now was not the best time to make the point.
“Okay. I don’t know the exact location of my assistant at this precise moment. Also I don’t really understand why it’s such an issue.” Bartlett opened his mouth to speak, but Marnie continued. “The answers to your questions are that the note was typed on my machine, as I’ve already told you. At least, I guess it was. It seems logical. Dolly’s fur on the church door must have come from me, I suppose. I have been to the church a few times. I remind you that I’m working on a project there. My footprints round the
tower are no great surprise. I’ve been in the churchyard recently. Now those are straight answers to your questions.” She looked him in the eye and waited.
When he spoke, his tone was quieter. “Consider the evidence and your answers, Mrs Walker. Do you find them satisfactory?”
“Yes. Completely.”
“That may be one of the problems.”
“Do you really regard me as a suspect?”
“We know you’re not telling us everything. You’re concealing something. It’s a pity your assistant isn’t here to corroborate your story.”
“It doesn’t need corroborating. It’s simply the truth. And while you’re spending time with me, the real murderer is out there.”
“Do you have any suspicions about who that person might be, Mrs Walker?” Marnie thought about all the possibilities, but her mind kept straying to the other murder all those years ago. It was somehow impossible to disentangle the two events and they merged into a single tragic scream in her brain every time she thought about them, as if the murderer was the same person both times, Randall Hughes had said. She wished desperately that Ralph was there and suddenly jerked back, realising that Bartlett and Lamb were standing in her office, watching her, waiting for an answer.
“S-sorry,” she stammered and cleared her throat. “No, I don’t know who it could have been, I really don’t.”
“How tall are you, Mrs Walker?”
“About five foot seven. One metre sixty-eight, if you prefer metric.”
“Imperial will do nicely, thank you. However you measure, that’s quite tall. Tall for a woman, I’d say.” Marnie remained silent, surprised at her growing feeling of aggression towards the police and anxious to keep it hidden. Bartlett continued. “Would you describe yourself as strong?”
Marnie had never really considered this. “For a woman, probably yes.”
“Fit?”
“Reasonably, I suppose. Look, I don’t understand where all this is –”
“Do you like cooking?”
