by McNeir, Leo
Before his execution the prisoner in the condemned cell ate a hearty breakfast.
*
Marriner arrived back at HQ and went down the corridor leading to Bartlett’s office as his boss was converging on it from the opposite direction. Bartlett rang through to ask for sandwiches and coffee to be brought in and slumped in his chair with a sigh.
“God almighty, I can do without that sort of grilling.” He motioned Marriner to a chair. “So what’s new? Cathy said you’ve seen the missing assistant. What’s she like?”
“Just a kid,” said Marriner. “I think she’ll be more helpful than Marnie Walker, though. But look at this.” He produced a sheet of paper from a folder and laid it on the desk in front of Bartlett, who screwed up his face, straining to read the tiny writing. Bartlett bent forward until his nose was almost touching the page. “What’s it say? Bloody funny writing. It’s all joined together. What the hell is this, Ted?”
“Start in that corner and you’ll see it better.” Marriner pointed to the bottom of the page and Bartlett twisted his head to focus on the words.
“Oh, yes, I see. What does it say?” He began reading out loud, slowly and carefully like someone just learning to read. “Vengeance - is - mine - I - will - repay - saith - the - Lord. Blimey.” He looked up at Marriner. “I want every available unit on the lookout. I want road-blocks, searches, details in the press, on radio and television.”
“All in hand,” said Marriner.
“Helicopter out?”
“Not yet.”
“Do it. Now.”
*
Anne finished wrapping the parcel and looked up at the clock. It was nearly five. “Just in time to get the design into the post,” she said. “Do you want anything special from the shop?”
Marnie looked up from her concentration. “Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. Let me think. I know there are some things we need.”
“Don’t worry,” said Anne. “I’ve already done a list. I just wondered if you wanted anything else.”
Marnie smiled. “Where would we be without your lists?”
“I really don’t know how you coped while I was away. Okay, I’d better be off then. See you!”
“Hang on a sec,” said Marnie. “I’ve just thought. Can you get some nibbly things, you know some cashews, olives, pistachios, whatever they’ve got. Frank Day’s coming round for a chat this evening. I’ll need something to go with a glass of wine.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Anne. “Right, I’ll see what they have.” She opened the door.
“Anne, I’d like you to be there as well. Sorry I forgot to mention it. I’ve had my head down today.”
“You don’t have to invite me.”
“Oh yes. Of course. Please.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Anne turned to go and raised a hand to shield her eyes. She turned back to Marnie. “There’s that helicopter again.”
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” said Marnie.
“It’s been going backwards and forwards all afternoon. I wonder what it’s doing.” She strained to see it as it passed in the distance. “I think it’s police.”
“Can’t be doing a traffic survey round here,” said Marnie. “No traffic. I bet it’s Bartlett keeping an eye on me.”
“Isn’t that what they call paranoia?” said Anne.
“Just because I’m paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me,” said Marnie. Anne stuck her tongue out and set off to the village.
*
Talk about headless chickens, thought Marriner, as he pulled into the police station carpark. He had spent the entire afternoon driving round in the vain pursuit of Randall Hughes. As the day wore on, he became increasingly convinced that his suspect had probably gone off to visit relatives and forgotten to mention it to his cleaner. What had first seemed to be a good lead now looked like being the subject of tomorrow’s ‘discussion’ between Bartlett and the head of CID. They all knew how much it cost to call out the helicopter for half a day. In the entrance to the station he ran into WDC Lamb.
“Hallo, sarge. No luck?”
Marriner shook his head. “I’d better go and tell Bartlett,” he said. “He will be pleased.”
“He’s not in,” said Cathy Lamb. “There’s a meeting in the Super’s office. He said he won’t be back till after six.”
“Oh well, I suppose that gives the chopper a bit longer to come up with something.”
“It doesn’t, I’m afraid,” she said. “The chopper’s grounded. Low cloud developing.”
“What a balls-up,” he muttered and, grateful for small mercies, headed down the corridor towards the canteen.
*
“That was a nice supper,” said Anne, clearing the table. “Do you want coffee now, or when Frank Day arrives?”
“I think I’ll have one now. Goodness knows what time he’ll turn up. How about you?”
“Perhaps I’ll go and do my tidying up and have something when he gets here.” They washed the dishes together, chatting about the next day’s work and Anne made her way back to the barn. Cloud cover had brought a premature half-dusk as she hurried through the spinney.
Marnie meanwhile sat down with her coffee and put on a Vivaldi tape. She was thinking about what Frank had said on the phone that lunch-time. Had he really said he knew what had happened? Did he mean Toni or the earlier victim? Restless and longing for a cigarette, she picked up the folder of papers that Ralph had given her and looked through the Fellheimer documents.
It was a strange assortment: copies of deeds, bills for work carried out for the church and the lord of the manor. Most striking was the photocopy of a letter from the Northampton Grand Committee, informing the vicar of 1647 precisely what order of service was permitted. The letter looked so new that Marnie had first thought it was modern. As she read on, she felt as determined as ever to get to the bottom of the mystery.
Marnie began to set the papers in order, one pile for background, one relating to the Day family, another dealing with church bills, one containing other village matters, a few pages of academic comment and finally, her own list of questions and notes. She immersed herself in everything, no matter how insignificant it seemed. Among the bills the name Day regularly re-appeared. Sarah Anne’s father, Jonathan Day, was the village blacksmith, like his father and grandfather before him. Dr Fellheimer’s notes stated that he had been badly wounded at Huntingdon in 1644 and had not been fit enough to return to the village until after the death of the vicar the following year. He could have played no part in the murder.
She searched back through the papers and found that his father, Joseph Day, had worked on the rebuilding of the church tower thirty years before. He had submitted bills for sundry ironworks. In the tower? What ironworks? thought Marnie. Perhaps in the belfry? All the papers were there, giving the names of stonemasons and apprentices. After each mason’s name was the title master mason. Obviously a matter of pride. They were craftsmen. Now, centuries later, there were more craftsmen working in the village, taking similar pride in their work, even though the technology had changed. She thought of the medieval builders of the church and wondered if they had really been bettered. Did each generation improve on what had gone before or just add to it?
Certainly men like Bob wanted to do their best and Marnie felt the same about her work. But if this was true, why were the men who restored the tower content with the timber partition? Surely not because it would hardly ever be seen. Why did they not finish the tower properly in stone? Bob would never have tolerated that standard of work, so why did they?
Marnie poured herself another coffee and turned up the oil lamps. She loved this time of the evening when the lamps lit up the cabin. It was magic. Every colour seemed to shine, the varnished tongued and grooved boarding, the Liberty print curtains, the polished brass rods and rings. A memory came into her head, of Peter the engineer at the boatyard in Oxford.
“You have to do your best all the time, even if no-one can see
it. You know it’s been done properly and that’s what matters.”
She read on through Jonathan Day’s papers. It was then that she noticed the faint scrawl added after the signature on the will. At first she had taken it for the date, but on closer inspection she discovered that it was a word, or rather a collection of letters. PSlOB. She fetched the magnifying glass from the map cupboard and studied it closely. It may have been PsIO8 or even Ps10 8. She rested her chin on her hand and wondered what it might be. Anne’s last remaining photograph from the crypt lay beside her on the table, with its reference to St John’s gospel. Marnie fetched the old bible that Anne had used to find the quotation and ran her finger down the contents list. The only book of the bible that began with P was the Book of Psalms. Ps. She looked up Psalm 10 and stopped at verse 8. Her cheeks began to tingle. She stared into space, her mind overflowing with images.
Well, me dook, if it was me …
They hated me without a cause …
The murderer must have been in the tower … it’s the only logical possibility …
Perhaps it was the same murderer both times …
Marnie felt hot and dizzy. She put a hand to her head and tried to think clearly, breathing in deeply, suddenly seeing everything as it was, as it must have been. Her head spun. Her eyes lost focus. She made herself stand up and reached into the cupboard for her torch, pressing the switch to check the batteries. She had to know, could not bear to wait another minute. And she had to go alone. There would be time later to tell Anne, once she had found out the truth for herself. At least now she knew what she was looking for. Nothing was going to deflect her this time. She picked up the church keys and, as an afterthought, the thick file of papers and made her way out quickly and quietly, surprised at how dim the light was for this time of the evening. She skirted round the back of the office barn so that Anne would not see her.
*
Even after several weeks of working and living with Marnie, Anne could still hardly believe her good fortune. Surveying the office after her assault on it, she wanted to turn cartwheels of joy, though all she had done was a little filing, some dusting and general tidying up. The pleasure was quite disproportionate to the effort she had made, but it was her office and her job and she did it for Marnie.
Next, she turned her attention to the bedroom and climbed the loft ladder with clean sheets over her shoulder. Before setting to work, she turned on her cassette player and loaded a Vivaldi tape borrowed from Marnie. She hummed The Four Seasons to herself as she put her room in order, happy to forget for a while the events of the past week.
*
Frank Day turned off the motorway after parting company with the van and headed towards the south of the county. He picked up the mobile phone and pressed the buttons for Marnie’s number. In the window flashed a message: BATTERY LOW. Damn! He tried again. Same result. It was too late to recharge it from the car battery and he thought about finding a payphone, but by the time he had managed that, he would be almost on her doorstep. He decided to press on.
*
It was a long way round, but Marnie wanted no-one to see her going into the church. She approached from Martyrs Close, trying to look inconspicuous, walking unhurriedly with her file tucked under her arm as if on a routine visit in connection with the building project. She slipped through the gate in the churchyard wall and walked round to unlock the main door, pulling it closed behind her, confident that she had not been seen.
On previous visits she had checked the church for any possible hiding place in the nave, the vestry or the side chapel, but this time she knew that was unnecessary. She walked straight towards the tower door and pushed it wide open, hesitating for a second. It was the first time she had been in the church since Toni’s death.
Flicking on the torch, she hugged the file to her with the same hand and made a determined effort not to stare down at the place where she knew Toni had been found. She climbed carefully up to the landing to look closely at the wooden partition. How she had not realised that this must have been the key to the whole mystery she could not imagine. Anne, with clear logic and straight thinking, had to be right and this had to be the place. Systematically, Marnie ran the fingers of her free hand over every inch of the surface in the powerful beam of the torch, ready at any moment for whatever might happen. Minutes passed but she was not deterred. With certainty she followed the torchlight until she finally came to the bottom right hand corner of the dark oak panel. Her search had revealed nothing and she turned her attention now to the surrounding stonework.
Again she ran her fingers down the rough, unfinished surface, looking for any loose stone that might give access to whatever was concealed behind the panel. She cursed that she had not thought to bring a penknife, but suspected that it should not have been necessary. First one side and then the other. Nothing. All that remained was the lintel and the flagstones beneath her feet. She stepped backwards onto the nearest step and inspected the floor of the landing. Certainly, one of the stones wobbled, while the other was rigid. This must be significant, she thought, and pressed down carefully at each corner with her hand, watching the partition in the torch beam for any movement. There was no reaction.
Despite the lack of success, Marnie’s determination and certainty did not waver. She leaned back against the outer wall and considered her position, muttering that she would stay there all night if need be. It was obvious that there was space behind the panel. The staircase was narrow and the tower was broad. It occurred to her that perhaps access could be gained from above or below the landing and she walked down to the bottom of the stairs to look at the plans in the file. They revealed nothing new and, to gain a clearer perspective, she decided to slip outside to look at the whole structure. She eased the door open, made sure that no-one could see her and stepped out to survey the tower from the shelter of a yew tree.
Gradually a plan began to take shape in her mind. What if she took down the partition? It was only the size of a door. She could cut it out with an electric jig-saw! Why not? She could probably do it in the daytime when no-one was around and complete the work before anyone realised what was happening. Bob and his men could fill in the gap with matching stonework. The tower would finally be completed to a high standard after all these years. Or was it crazy? Technically of course she would be tampering with a listed building without permission, but was that important if it solved the mystery of two deaths?
Marnie peered round the yew tree and saw no-one. Quickly she jogged back to the main door and pulled it open. As she went in she heard a car go by.
Reaching the landing again, she had one last look at the panel and made her decision to return the next day with the power tools and an extension cable. She would reveal nothing of this to Frank, but would listen to what he had to say with an open mind.
Outside in the street, while Marnie was thinking of her action plan, the car that she had heard came to a halt a short way beyond the church. Frank Day wondered if his eyes had deceived him in the gloom. Had he really seen someone going in through the church door? Without hesitation he reversed the car and pulled up nearer to the lych-gate.
*
When Anne completed her work in the office barn, she decided to return to Sally Ann for news of any progress with Frank’s visit. The dull evening had become even gloomier since she had first left the boat and she was surprised not to see any lights burning on board as she approached through the spinney.
“Hallo! Marnie!” she called from the deck and stepped down into the cabin. Dolly was curled up on one of the chairs, but the boat was otherwise deserted.
She walked through to the galley and picked up the mobile phone. Pressing the buttons, she discovered that no messages had been left and noticed the papers standing in piles on the saloon table beside a half empty cup of coffee. She turned on a cabin light and examined the documents. Where was Marnie? They could not have missed each other in the spinney, she thought. She would have heard the car if Marnie had driv
en off and would have heard Frank’s car if he had arrived. Anne picked up the magnifying glass and twisted it in her fingers. She opened the map cupboard. The torch was missing. She checked the key hooks. Only one hook was empty. The ornate church key had gone. She picked up the mobile again and checked the last call. It was another mobile number that she did not recognise. Frank Day?
Anne turned at once, stuffed the phone into her back pocket and left the boat. She ran past the farm buildings and up the track, feeling in her jeans for the pen-light she always carried.
*
Marnie found no other possible way into the hidden chamber from either above or below the landing. Her mind was now completely made up and she was determined to cut out the panel. From near the top of the stairs she began to make her way down, when she heard a sound from somewhere in the church below. At first she wondered if the clock was about to chime, but it made no other noise. Perhaps a door shutting in the pub car park opposite? Instinct told her otherwise and she waited in the semi-darkness, listening carefully. The acoustics were deceptive. She resumed her descent, treading silently, memories of being trapped in the crypt uppermost in her mind. A feeling came over her that she was no longer alone in the building. She felt another presence and was convinced of other sounds even if she could not hear them. Reaching the landing, she paused and waited, steadying herself against the stonework, one hand gripping the torch, the other clutching the thick file of papers. There was a click somewhere nearby, though precisely where she could not tell. Instinctively she retreated onto the dark landing, her foot coming down on the unfirm step. She tottered unsteadily, both hands full, and reached up to regain her balance, pressing the torch against the stone surface above her head.
It was at that moment that the killer struck, having waited patiently for so long in the darkness. It was a vicious blow, a murderous blow aimed straight at the heart and it could not miss.
