Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  “Cooking? Well, yes. It’s a relaxation. I really don’t follow.”

  “May we visit your kitchen?”

  “I don’t have a kitchen here. For the time being I’m using the galley on Sally Ann. It’s small, but adequate.”

  On board, Bartlett and Lamb both came down into the cabin, the woman standing in the saloon while the inspector examined the cooker and the shelves and touched the jars of herbs on their rack over the workbench.

  “Very neat and well organised, Mrs Walker.”

  “You have to be on a boat. Everything has to have a place.”

  “And where’s the place for the cutlery? Will you show me?” Marnie pulled open the drawer. “Are these your cooking implements at the side?”

  “Most of them. I have a set of kitchen knives and some other tools on hooks beside the stove down there.”

  “Where are the knives?” Marnie opened the drawer further and showed Bartlett the box of knives, each one resting in its own slot, every slot occupied.

  “And your tools?”

  “They’re in crates in the cratch and there’s a small box of screwdrivers and spanners under the top step, handy for the engine.”

  “What’s the … cratch? Can I see the crates?”

  “The cratch is the bows, the front end. I’ll show you.” By now, Marnie had the impression that Bartlett was grasping at anything that came into his head. What could possibly be the purpose of all this? She opened the cratch doors and stepped in, lifting up the cover from the bench on the left and indicating the top crate. Bartlett followed her, stooping slightly under the lower ceiling. The crate was made of strong red plastic, designed for stacking. There were six identical red crates in all and one of the top ones contained tools, several standing in tins. One tin was empty.

  “What goes in there?” said Bartlett pointing at it.

  “I’m not sure, to be honest. I don’t use the tools very often these days. I mainly use Sally as living accommodation.” She looked through the collection.

  “When was the last time you used the tools?” said Bartlett. “Can you remember?” He peered into the tin without touching it. Marnie tried to think. When could it be? “Is this where a knife is kept?” said Bartlett.

  “Good lord! Yes it is. How did you know that?” said Marnie in astonishment. She leaned forward to look at the tin. It was perfectly empty. “It was when Frank Day was on the towpath with a swan caught in fishing line. He wanted a knife to cut it free.”

  “And you were able to oblige.”

  “No, not actually. The knife fell over the side. Anne had to fetch Frank’s own knife from his car.”

  “Anne being your assistant who isn’t here at the moment,” said Bartlett. “Why not use a kitchen knife?”

  “We could have, I suppose, but I’d rather not use them for something like that. Anyway the line was tough nylon and the boat knife would be better, heavy and sharp.”

  “And now your one is lost in the canal. What a shame.”

  “I’ll get it back,” said Marnie. She was finding his obscure questioning even more irritating than usual.

  “How? How will you get it back?”

  “By using the magnet. We keep a heavy duty magnet on board for this kind of eventuality. Most boats do.”

  “Let’s try,” said Bartlett.

  The search was not easy. Marnie edged Sally Ann across the channel and began trawling with the magnet on its line. Ten minutes is a long time to spend pulling a line through the opaque water of a canal. Several times the magnet clung to the side of the hull with a hollow metallic thud and had to be yanked clear. She was on the brink of giving up when she felt the line stiffen with contact. She pulled gently but firmly, keeping the line well away from the side of the boat and hauled in. The magnet broke clear from the water, locked on to the lost knife.

  “There!” said Marnie in triumph. “I told you.” She reached forward to grasp the handle, but Bartlett took it first, holding it in a handkerchief, studying it intently. It shone faintly in the afternoon light, its wide thick blade and chunky handle partly covered in mud and weeds, staining the clean white cotton. Marnie stared at the knife and at Bartlett and she understood. “A knife,” she said. That’s what you’ve been looking for all along.” She sat down on the lid of the gas bottle container and drew in a deep breath. For a few moments nobody spoke and she sat staring ahead of her. “I thought … I mean, I didn’t realise.”

  “What didn’t you realise?” said Bartlett.

  “About the knife. I thought, at least, I just supposed …”

  “Go on, Mrs Walker.”

  “It’s just come home to me, what this means. Toni was … killed with a knife. Is that right?”

  “What did you think had happened?” The detectives studied her closely.

  “I don’t know. On the radio they just said you were treating it as suspicious. I had the idea she’d died by falling down the steps.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “Because they’re worn and dangerous and the tower’s very tall. A vicar was killed here once before, you know. That was in the tower.”

  “When was that exactly?” The two police officers exchanged puzzled glances.

  “In the summer of 1645 in the Civil War. The murder weapon was never found.”

  “Who committed the murder?” said Bartlett. Marnie sensed his professional interest, even in a crime of such antiquity.

  “They never found that out, either.”

  “What about this crime?” said Bartlett. “Who are we going to get for this?” Marnie shook her head. It was one thing to hear about it on the radio, but quite different to see the kind of weapon that could have killed someone, even if her own knife was just a tool. “Do you have a solicitor, Mrs Walker?” Bartlett was speaking softly, his voice reaching her as if from a distance.

  “Not really, only the one who did the work on moving house.” Marnie realised what she had said before she fully registered the question. “Why should I need a solicitor?”

  “I advise you to contact him.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Tell him the situation and he’ll explain why.”

  “But this has nothing at all to do with me, inspector. That knife couldn’t have killed Toni.”

  “Shall we go back now?” Bartlett pointed to Sally Ann’s docking area and Marnie automatically went through the motions of bringing the boat in. Was she going to be arrested? Were they going to charge her with something? This was ridiculous! She moved purposefully about the boat, guiding her in and making her secure before shutting down the engine. They stepped onto the ground and walked back through the trees. No-one spoke. It was a still, peaceful afternoon, warm and bright, the sun making patterns on the floor of the spinney. None of them noticed. As they approached the complex of farm buildings, a ringing could be heard and Marnie jogged ahead to answer the phone. She reached it as it stopped ringing.

  “No answerphone today, Mrs Walker?”

  Marnie shrugged. “They must have hung up. A lot of people don’t like talking to machines.”

  “But surely it would have cut in? I didn’t hear the message, just the ringing.” He walked to Anne’s desk and opened the lid of the answerphone. “Didn’t you realise there was no tape in the machine?”

  Marnie look surprised. “No tape? Surely there must be … Oh!” She put a hand to her mouth, remembering Toni’s last message, the tape taken from the machine. What had she done with it?

  “Oh what, Mrs Walker?”

  “I took the tape out. I’d forgotten. Sorry.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s hard to explain, to find the right words … upsetting.”

  “Where’s the tape now?”

  “I’m not sure. I think I put it in a pocket. What was I wearing? Let me think.” There was a waistcoat hung over the back of her chair. She reached in the pocket and pulled out the micro-cassette. Bartlett took it from her and slotted it into the machine.
He pressed the Play button. The messages rolled and Marnie felt a lump in her throat as Toni’s voice came on. She tried not to listen, not wanting to embarrass herself in front of the two detectives.

  “… See you soon. Oh, by the way, I’ll not be at home Monday morning. If you want me, I’ll probably be in the church. Bye! God bless!”

  Marnie swallowed, retaining her self-control. “Now you know why –” Bartlett raised a hand to stop her speaking. The machine peeped and another message began.

  “Hallo, Marnie, it’s me. Anne with an ‘e’. Just thought I’d let you know we have a phone number if you need to contact me while we’re away. You see, you can’t get rid of me as easily as that. We’ve found a really nice spot on a farm near Balquidder. There are just a few other families camping here and we get fresh eggs and things from the farm. It’s great. Hope all is well and that the meeting went off OK. Mum and dad send their regards. Anyway, this is the number. Ring me any time and I’ll get a message.”

  Bartlett nodded to his colleague and she took down the number. The machine peeped again and stopped, pausing a moment before the hiss of the tape rewinding. Bartlett removed the cassette. “I’ll need to keep this for a while. That was presumably your assistant? Why did you tell us you had no means of contacting her?”

  “Because it was true.”

  “Are you telling me you didn’t listen to the messages?”

  “Of course I listened to them. If you must know, I was very upset by Toni’s message and I stopped the machine. Now you know where Anne can be reached, you can check everything I’ve told you.”

  “Oh, we will, Mrs Walker. You can count on it.”

  *

  Bartlett was glad that Cathy Lamb managed to drive the car round the bumps on the field track rather more successfully than Ted Marriner. Whatever you thought of women as police officers, and Bartlett on the whole shared the view generally held by men in the force, they were not without some qualities. And a few, like Constable Lamb, were attractive to have around, though he had to admit she was not in the same class as Marnie Walker. On the other hand, you knew where you were with Cathy Lamb, unlike Walker, who seemed able to make up excuses to fit any situation.

  “Some points to follow up there,” said Bartlett.

  “Yes, sir.” She kept her eyes on the rough track and concentrated on reaching the top without upset. Bartlett considered it part of his role to help her understand the complexities of the job. Senior officers were often being reminded these days of their duties as mentors to junior staff.

  “I think we’re going to be able to break down Mrs Walker’s story from this point on.” He glanced sideways at Lamb and she nodded, manoeuvring carefully round a deep rut. “So far, she’s been able to tell us anything she pleased. Now, we can get hold of her assistant and start to get at the truth.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sometimes, Bartlett thought it could be hard going with these new officers, even when you tried your best to help them. “What do you make of it all, constable?”

  “I’m not really sure what truth you mean, to be honest, sir.” She spoke without taking her attention from the rough track ahead of them.

  Bartlett breathed in deeply and realised he would have to be very patient. “About the facts,” he said gently. “The evidence, you know. The cat’s fur, the footprints, why she was waiting outside the vicarage at midnight, concealing the answerphone tape, the missing knife, the missing assistant, the type-written note. The facts in the case.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, don’t you have a view? Don’t you have some ideas on all these matters?” Lamb brought the car to a halt at the top of the track inside the field gate. She pulled on the handbrake.

  “Well, I thought, in a way …”

  “Go on,” said Bartlett.

  “What she said seemed to be consistent.”

  “Consistent?”

  “She was doing a job for the vicar at the church, so all that side of things seemed reasonable to me. I mean, she had to go there in connection with the work. Also, they could be friends. They were more or less the same age, both new to the village, professional women. Why not? The message sounded friendly.”

  “You’re satisfied with her story then, are you?”

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be true, sir.” Lamb looked uncomfortable.

  “And the tape taken from the machine? What about that? Isn’t that suspicious?”

  “I had the feeling she was telling the truth.”

  “Feeling? What’s this, feminine intuition?”

  “Not really. I can understand her taking the tape out after hearing the message from her friend who’d just been killed and not noticing anything else. I mean, it’s a big thing, one of your friends being murdered. A terrible shock.”

  “All right, all right. What about the knife?”

  “She had no idea a knife had been used in the murder. That was obvious … sir.”

  “You mean she looked convincing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “With all those sharp kitchen knives she just had to get the heavy knife from the tool box and it just accidentally happened to go over the side. You don’t think that’s a strange coincidence?”

  “Possibly, yes. But I can understand why she didn’t want to use one of the kitchen knives to cut something tough. It might have got damaged.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes sir. I saw those knives in the drawer. They were top quality chef’s knives. Do you know what they cost? Someone like Walker, someone with her kind of taste, would never think of using one of those like a boy scout’s jack knife.”

  “So you think she’s being level with us and telling the truth. Everything is just as she says?”

  “Not really, sir. No.”

  Bartlett was baffled by this. “What do you mean?”

  “When she answers your questions, I think she’s telling the truth, as far as it goes. But she’s not telling us everything, is she? There’s something she’s keeping back.”

  Bartlett would have called this intuition, too, if the same idea had not already been clear to him. “And I suppose you have a theory about that?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Cathy frowning. “I was wondering about the vandalism. What was that all about?”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  *

  “I’m afraid Mr Broadbent is out of the office. Can anyone else help?”

  “No, it’s all right, thanks,” said Marnie. “I’ll catch him at home.”

  “He’s not at home at the moment. He’s away attending a court hearing.”

  “Oh. Will he be away long?”

  “We expect him back possibly late tomorrow afternoon. It depends on the traffic on the M1.”

  “Could you pass on a message?”

  “Certainly. He phones in every day.”

  *

  Ted Marriner was beginning to wonder where the enquiries were leading. He had been on a few murder cases in his time and usually they were very different from the popular idea gained from whodunits. Most murders were sorted out quite quickly. Often it was someone from the victim’s family. The evidence pointed to them and there were few doubts about the facts almost from the start. After a few sessions of questioning, with ritual denials and protests of innocence, the murderer was only too relieved to be able to confess to everything and get it off their chest. Then it was just a matter of collecting the evidence to make a case that would stand up in court.

  This case, on the other hand, was what he called a ‘messy one’. For a start, there was no murder weapon. He was never comfortable about not having the weapon. It usually pointed to one of the suspects. Then there was the question of motive. He never liked to rely on motive. In his experience, people frequently did things for the strangest of reasons, and murderers were no exception. But in the case of Toni Petrie, the only apparent hostility to her was because she was a woman.

  As for opportunity, that was even
more complicated. The murder had taken place first thing on a Monday morning in the church, a building always kept locked. There was no evidence of a fight or even a scuffle; no trace of an intruder, a vandal or a tramp seeking shelter. The only clear signs were some cat’s hairs on the door and footprints outside by the tower, both pointing to Marnie Walker. Marriner was far from happy with her story, but loose ends were one thing, evidence, facts and sheer common sense were a different matter. He could think of no reason why she should want to kill Toni Petrie. If he was any judge of character, she was genuinely shocked and upset by the murder. Bartlett did not trust her, but even he drew back from actual suspicion, at least for the time being.

  Marriner drove down the high street pondering these conundrums. Top of his list that afternoon was George Stubbs and he nodded with admiration as he pulled into the drive beside the fine stone-built house, complete with dark green Range Rover outside the converted stable/garage block. It looked like a publicity shot from a tourist brochure. He asked if he could talk in private with Mr Stubbs and they went round to sit on a bench in the garden while Mrs Stubbs made tea.

  “I’m sorry to have to bother you again, sir. You see, there are several matters that aren’t yet clear and we have to eliminate everything that isn’t relevant to our enquiry.”

  “Of course, of course. How can I help you, sergeant?”

  “I believe you hold a key to the church.”

  “Correct, but I haven’t used it since I don’t know when.”

  “Do you know where the key is at this moment?”

  “It’s on its usual hook in the key cupboard in the hall.”

  “Could we check that before I leave, sir?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Has anyone borrowed it for any purpose at all in the last few weeks?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember the last time anyone used it?”

  “Pauline Fairbrother used it sometime last year. She was round here having lunch with my wife – they’re on the WI committee together – and wanted to look in with the flower rota. She used my key to save her going home to fetch her own. That was the only time I can remember it being used in years.”

  “For what reason do you keep a key, then, sir?”