Stick in the Mud: A riveting murder mystery

by Leo McNeir

  “Ooh! Unhand me, sir.” She laughed. “I wonder what your students would think if they could see you now.”

  “They’d be jealous as hell.”

  Marnie’s expression became thoughtful. “I hope Anne’s getting on all right. I rather landed her in it with that site meeting.” She checked her watch. “It’s probably starting about now.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Ralph said. “She’s only got to maintain a watching brief.”

  Marnie brought the boat to a halt by the bank. “Even so, I’ll make sure my mobile’s switched on, just in case she runs into something unexpected.”

  *

  Zoë Tipton took Anne and Donovan to one side near the ladder leading down into the excavations. They could see she was seething with pent-up anger, or perhaps frustration.

  “Look, it’s difficult. There are times when you’ve got to prioritise. Needs must, and all that. And strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to talk about what’s happened.”

  “Even though Donovan worked it out anyway?” Anne said.

  Zoë tossed her head. “It’s complicated.”

  “Then don’t tell us,” said Donovan. “But if you don’t mind me saying so, this whole excavation is going down the tubes because neither you nor Dick seems interested in running it.”

  “That’s not true,” Zoë protested.

  Donovan shrugged. “You say you’ve made a find of national importance here, then you leave the students kicking their heels while you’re off pursuing some other agenda.”

  Zoë sighed. “Okay, okay …”

  Anne looked at her watch. “Talking of agendas, you’ve got three minutes.”

  Zoë frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “My meeting starts in just over five minutes.”

  “Meeting? You’ve got a meeting?”

  Anne nodded. “With the client and all the contractors.”

  “Why you?” Zoë seemed incredulous.

  “You’re forgetting, my firm is part of the design team. I’m representing them today.”

  “But I thought you were just –”

  “Two minutes,” Anne said in an even tone.

  “But hang on,” Zoë began. “I need you for the filming.” She turned to Donovan. “What are we going to do about the sound recording?”

  “We’ll manage. I’ll rig you up and keep an eye on it as we go along.”

  “This is all very unsatisfactory.” Zoë looked pleadingly at Anne. “Just when we’d got everything going so well …”

  Anne could feel that Zoë was trying to make her seem unreasonable.

  “Look, Zoë, this contract is as important to me – to all of us involved – as your Roman ships or Dick’s lost treasure are to archaeology. This is one of the most innovative projects in the whole of Europe … maybe the world.”

  “But surely someone else can deal with the meeting?”

  Anne tucked her folder under her arm and turned to leave. “There’s a golden rule in Walker and Co. Never be late for a meeting, especially if you’re a woman.”

  “I thought you’d agreed to work with me … and Donovan.”

  “Yes, but like you, I sometimes have to prioritise when the need arises. Sorry, Zoë. Your time is up.”

  *

  The manhunt was over. DS Marriner took the call on his mobile as he was walking along the towpath. It was a brief message and after disconnecting, he waved to Cathy Lamb who was checking progress with a search party fifty yards up the canal. She arrived hot-foot, half walking, half jogging, her face a picture of concern.

  “They’ve found her, sarge? Was she … murdered?”

  “The answers to your questions, Cathy, are yes and not yet, in that order.”

  Lamb looked bewildered. “I don’t get it.”

  “She has been found, or rather she’s turned up.”

  “She’s alive?”

  “For the moment,” said Marriner, po-faced.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, when she’s recovered from her hangover, her mother has threatened to kill her.”

  “Thank goodness.” Lamb let the relief flow over her.

  “Cathy, pay attention.” Marriner spoke slowly. “Call off the search.”

  “Right, sarge.” She turned to go back to the search party. “What about you?”

  “I’m going up to the house. They may need assistance.”

  Lamb grinned. “To prevent the mother from killing her?”

  “No, to help her do it. Get moving, Cathy.”

  *

  To her credit, Zoë Tipton offered to carry the sound equipment down to the lower level of the dig. She shouldered a backpack and walked in silence with Donovan, who was now wearing safety gear, across the compound. At the top of the first ladder, she hesitated and turned to face him.

  “You were right to chastise me,” she said quietly.

  “Past history,” said Donovan. “We have work to do now. I’ve completed the editing of what we’ve done so far and –”

  “Listen,” Zoë interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. “I went in to LBU first thing to see if there was any news about Dick.”

  She paused. Donovan waited. Zoë seemed to be wrestling with an internal dilemma.

  “What do you know about Gerry Parfitt?” she asked, looking away.

  “That he prefers to be called Gerald, for a start.”

  Zoë screwed up her face. “Yes, of course, he does. So what do you know about him?”

  “Only that he’s been working with Dick on the King John project. He has a boat up on the north Norfolk coast, so he’s been able to help Dick in his search. That’s about it.”

  Another silence from Zoë. This time, Donovan spoke first.

  “Look, Zoë, if there’s something you don’t think I should know, don’t tell me. I won’t be offended. I respect academic confidentiality. We can just get on with our own work and –”

  “I don’t believe Dick’s made this so-called major discovery.” It came out in a rush. Zoë looked Donovan in the eye. “There. I’ve said it.”

  “Okay …” Donovan’s brain raced through the implications. “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve come to the conclusion that Dick has made up the story? Why would he do that when it would all come out and do untold damage to his reputation?”

  That’s the problem,” said Zoë. “I can’t fathom it out.”

  “Then why the disbelief?”

  “Well … for starters, you think Dick needed Gerald Parfitt because of his sailing expertise.”

  “Correct.”

  “But that isn’t the case. Dick’s an expert yachtsman.”

  “That’s not the impression I had.”

  “Donovan, sailing is one of Dick’s passions. He has a dinghy that he uses for racing on a lake somewhere. He used to own a small yacht but had to sell it to help finance the research course for his doctorate.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Zoë nodded. “A colleague at UEA told me that Gerald only bought his boat last year. My guess is that it was probably Dick who was teaching him about sailing.”

  “I don’t see what –”

  “Dick has been using the boat by himself while Gerald’s been off on some project or other.”

  Donovan mulled this over. “You’re suggesting that Dick sailed solo, so we only have his word for it that he discovered the treasure?”

  “Exactly. No corroboration.”

  “Then what about the three pieces he brought up from the bottom?”

  “They could have come from anywhere.”

  “Surely not. Who keeps medieval objects like that lying around?”

  “Universities and museums have collections of medieval artefacts,” Zoë said.

  “So you think Dick stole them, or what?”

  Zoë shrugged. “What else would explain things?”

  Donovan considered the possibilities in silen
ce.

  “But I come back to my question,” said Zoë. “What irrefutable proof exists that Dick actually made his big discovery?”

  “And I come back to mine,” said Donovan. “What would be the point of lying? His deception would soon be uncovered, and he’d be disgraced. End of academic career.”

  “Not necessarily. The fact that the treasure has lain undiscovered for the best part of a millennium would be on his side. He could simply claim that what he allegedly found was genuine, but that the underwater conditions were so unstable that finding more evidence was proving immensely difficult.”

  Zoë left Donovan space to think over her hypothesis.

  “So he’d have the kudos of finding the treasure …” Donovan began, “at least part of it, and nobody could deny that he’d made a major breakthrough because of the artefacts apparently recovered from the sea-bed.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Donovan shook his head. “But he could still be subject to challenge from his peer group. Knowing the academic world, that would be virtually inevitable.”

  “Exactly.”

  Zoë’s reply took Donovan by surprise.

  “You mean that’s why he’s gone missing?”

  Zoë sighed. “Come on, Donovan! You’re supposed to be the one who works things out.”

  Donovan closed his eyes, deep in thought. Eventually he stared at Zoë.

  “Dr Fennimore,” he said, so quietly he was barely audible.

  Zoë nodded. She looked deadly serious.

  *

  For once, DS Marriner opted to drive back to the station. Lamb sensed that he had a deal of pent-up energy for which he needed an outlet. Driving gave him something to occupy his mind and his hands.

  Although everyone was hugely relieved that the missing teenager had turned up safe and well, no one could deny that a sense of anti-climax hovered over everyone who had taken part in the abortive search. She had simply walked into the kitchen while her mother was filling the kettle. The WPC had suggested that a cup of tea would do them good.

  The girl looked the worse for wear and had broken down in tears when her mother embraced her, just as tearfully. It was as much as the WPC could do not to join them, struggling to keep her own emotions under control.

  The prodigal daughter had asked to be allowed to go and lie down, accepting her mother’s offer of painkillers. While the WPC phoned Marriner with the news, the mother had accompanied the girl upstairs. When she returned, a transformation had taken place; annoyance was starting to supplant elation.

  In her emotional state, the girl had confessed between sobs that she had spent the night with a boy. It was the old, old story. They had been at a party; she had had too much to drink; the boy had taken advantage of her. His parents were away and, as the girl was in no fit state to go home, she had fallen into a drink-induced sleep and woken with a mighty hangover and a burden of guilt and regret.

  At least no-one in the force could accuse Marriner of acting inappropriately. He had followed instructions to the letter and carried out orders by the book. The morning’s activities had distracted Lamb from all other concerns, and it therefore came as a surprise on entering the station when the duty officer announced that Marriner had a message to phone DS Rigby of the Met.

  Lamb had stood behind Marriner while he rang New Scotland Yard. The conversation was brief and typically for Marriner, monosyllabic. He eventually thanked Rigby and hung up.

  “Well, sarge?” Lamb tried to contain her impatience.

  “Not quite what I expected, Cathy.”

  *

  Now fully occupied, the students seemed happy enough to be hands-on in the excavation. From time to time Zoë interacted with one or other of them, and Donovan filmed their conferring. In Anne’s absence the sound recording was more complicated, but Donovan was able to compensate. He set up the camera on its stand, freeing him to watch over the dials on the sound equipment. Overall, he was reasonably pleased with the results. Zoë performed like a professional, and the students played their part.

  Donovan was filming a scene with Zoë talking to two students in the foreground, while further back another was using flash photography on the remains, when he became aware of someone standing close behind him. He turned to find a builder watching him. Signalling to the man not to speak, Donovan crept towards the camera and switched it off.

  “D’you want Dr Tipton?” Donovan asked.

  “Donovan Smith?” the builder said without preamble.

  “That’s me.”

  “You’re wanted up top.”

  Donovan excused himself to Zoë and followed the man up the ladders. When they stepped off at surface level, the builder pointed to the staff hut.

  “You’re sure it’s me they want?” Donovan said.

  “That’s the name the officer gave me.”

  “Officer?”

  The builder nodded. “Copper.” He grinned. “Hope you ’aven’t been a naughty boy.”

  The builder set off across the compound, leaving Donovan standing alone. He was about to move when he saw people exiting another of the huts, among them Anne. Her meeting had come to an end and, catching sight of him, she waved and smiled as she headed in his direction. By the time she reached him, the smile had faded.

  “Something up?” she asked. “You look serious.”

  “I have … a visitor,” Donovan said, “a policeman.”

  “Here?” Anne knew it was a silly question.

  “Waiting for me in the staff hut.”

  Anne took hold of his arm. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No.”

  “But I want to.”

  Donovan glanced briefly away. “Not a good idea … for two reasons.”

  Anne attempted a smile. “You’ve always got two reasons.”

  Donovan smiled back. “At least. But I mean it. The first is that if there’s trouble, I don’t want you to be implicated.”

  Anne squeezed his arm. “I already –”

  “No listen. It’s important. As far as the police are concerned, my connection with you and the others is that Ralph and my father were colleagues.”

  “But we’re more than –”

  “Of course, but they don’t know that. Anne, this is about the shooting of Garth Brandon. No-one’s going to try to connect Ralph with that.”

  “So I’m under suspicion as some kind of gangster’s Moll?”

  Donovan laughed. “Absolutely.” He looked at the thin, waif-like girl with the closely-cut blonde hair and innocent blue eyes. “You’re type-cast for the role.” He reached forward and kissed her lightly. “I’ve gotta go.”

  Anne grabbed his arm. “Donovan, I wish I could do something – anything – to help.”

  “You can. Listen, if I’m … detained, get my filming equipment and take it to the flat. Keep it safe for me.”

  “Sure.” She released his arm. “You said there were two reasons.”

  Donovan looked over towards the site entrance gate.

  “There’s the second.”

  Anne turned to see Dick Blackwood talking to the security guard. They appeared to be deep in conversation. When she turned back to Donovan, he was striding towards the staff hut.

  *

  The police constable was sitting at the table in the otherwise empty staff hut when Donovan knocked on the door and went in. Someone had given him a cup of tea, and he was adding sugar to it from a tin. He looked about the same age as Donovan, with cropped hair that exaggerated the size of his ears. His distinctive helmet was resting on a chair beside him.

  “Good morning,” Donovan said, taking out a small plastic card holder from his rear pocket and presenting it to the officer. “I believe you want to see me.”

  The policeman took the card. “What’s this?”

  “My ID.”

  The officer read it. “Is this German?”

  Donovan nodded. The PC looked up at him.

  “Smith?” There was doubt in his tone.

&n
bsp; “Long story,” said Donovan. “What can I do for you?”

  The policeman handed back the card. “You’re to present yourself at New Scotland Yard.”

  He drank from the plastic cup. Donovan looked on impassively. He knew what was coming next.

  *

  Dick saw Anne standing alone as he crossed the compound. He acknowledged her but made no attempt to approach or speak to her. When he was a few yards from the staff hut he was surprised when the door opened and a police officer came out ahead of Donovan. Dick stopped in his tracks.

  Anne noticed that Donovan was no longer wearing his safety gear. She quickly moved to stand beside Dick. Mindful of Donovan’s wishes, she made no direct contact, and Donovan did not even glance at her as he walked by.

  “Morning, Dick,” he said in passing.

  “Can we have a word some time?” Dick asked.

  “Might be difficult.” Donovan indicated the constable. “Some other time, perhaps.”

  Still watching Donovan and the PC as they went out through the gate, Dick turned to Anne. “Any idea what’s going on?”

  Anne could have told him she thought Donovan was being taken to the police station to be charged. Instead she said simply, “Who knows?”

  “Has something happened while I’ve been away?”

  “You tell me, Dick.”

  Dick shook his head slowly. “Very odd. Is Zoë about, d’you know?”

  “She’s down at the lower level with the students. Everyone’s been working on the Roman ships for a while now.”

  “I’d better get togged up, then,” said Dick.

  “Me too.”

  Dick looked at Anne and realised she was not wearing safety clothing. “Have you just arrived?”

  “No. I had a site meeting. You’d better get changed. We can talk later.”

  Dick looked wary. “What about?”

  “About your absence, perhaps.”

  “Sorry, Anne, no offence, but I don’t see what that has to do with you.”

  “You will when I tell you that Zoë is having doubts about your discovery.”

  Dick’s mouth gaped open. “She what?”

  “She’s been making disparaging noises about it.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She told us she had doubts, suspicions even, about what you said you’d found.”

  “The bitch!” Dick glared at Anne. “Who was there when she said it?”