by Leo McNeir
“Just Donovan and me.”
“De Groot?” Anne shook her head. “The students?”
“No. I told you. No-one else.”
“I’ll bloody …” He clenched his fists at his side. “That’s typical of her.”
Anne stood her ground. “Where have you been these past days, Dick?”
But she received no reply. Dick stormed off towards the site entrance and was through the gate and gone, leaving Anne to wonder once again what was going on. And what had happened to Donovan?
*
Marnie was starting to feel peckish, and Ralph readily agreed when she suggested they find somewhere suitable to stop for a bite in Cassiobury Park. Slowing to pass moored craft, she picked up the cruising guide to check the area ahead of them. A sudden flash of movement caused her to look up. Fifty yards off, a tube train was dashing over a functional modern bridge. At that range Marnie could just see the heads of passengers turning to look down at the waterway. For her, the Metropolitan Line of the Underground was the first sign of leaving London behind. The second would be coming up later in the afternoon when they passed beneath the elevated section of the M25, London’s Orbital Motorway.
Ten minutes later in a wooded parkland setting Marnie steered for the bank, and Ralph hopped ashore to attach the mooring ropes. When Marnie turned off the engine, she became aware that another was running, humming quietly elsewhere in the boat. Moments after Ralph climbed aboard at the cratch, the second motor cut out. Ralph had been running the generator to charge their mobile phones.
They were in the galley considering the major policy decision of what to eat for lunch when Marnie’s mobile began chirping. Telling Ralph that her vote was in favour of a ham and salad sandwich, she went out on deck and took the call.
“Hi, Marnie, it’s Anne.”
Something in the tone of Anne’s voice put Marnie on her guard.
“Everything okay?”
“I’ve been trying to ring you, but I guessed you had the mobile on charge.”
“A brilliant deduction, Holmes. How are things? How did the meeting go?”
“Nothing to report, really. Just routine. We seem to be more or less on schedule at the moment. Philip wants to talk to you about designs, but he said it could wait till after the weekend.”
“Good. Anything else?” There was silence on the line. “Anne?”
“A policeman came and took Donovan away.”
The baldness of the statement rocked Marnie’s world. “Was he arrested?”
“I don’t know. They just went off together.”
“Was Donovan … in handcuffs?”
“No.”
“How did he seem? Did he look worried?”
“You know Donovan, Marnie. He never gives anything away.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Not to me. He’s trying to keep a distance from me as far as the police are concerned. He just said hallo to Dick and that he might see him some time.”
“Dick’s back?” Another surprise.
“He looked in for a few minutes.” There was a pause. “Marnie I … I think I may have said something stupid.”
“Go on.”
“I, er … told Dick that Zoë had said she wasn’t convinced about his big discovery.”
“How did he take that?”
“Guess.”
“Right. And the outcome?”
“He was really angry. Oh, Marnie, I wish I’d kept my big mouth shut.”
“Where is he now, and where are you?”
“I’m in the flat. I came back for lunch. Dick went off in a state. I don’t know where he’s gone.”
“Okay. I think I’d better come back into town.”
“There’s really no need, Marnie. I don’t think there’s anything you can do here.”
“I thought you could maybe use some moral support.”
“I’m fine, really. Sorry about this, Marnie. I think I’ve messed up.”
“Don’t worry about it. Listen, Anne, you get some lunch and I’ll give you a ring this evening.”
“Okay, but I think I’ve lost my appetite.”
Marnie was back in the galley just as Ralph placed her sandwich on a plate. As pièce de résistance he decorated it with a sprig of parsley. It was York ham, fresh and tender, on wholemeal bread, with lettuce and tomato, one of Marnie’s favourites. As she looked at it, Ralph sensed the change in her mood, and she realised that she too had lost her appetite.
*
Donovan had been left sitting alone in a waiting room in New Scotland Yard for almost an hour. He suspected it was a form of intimidation, giving him time to fret about what was going to happen to him. If so, it seemed a very British way of applying pressure, and one which would not cause him any problems. Certain that he was being observed by hidden cameras, he sat quietly with both hands in his lap and contemplated the situation.
He knew it was only a matter of time before the police found out about his London house. There were occasions, he thought, when having the surname Smith was a positive advantage. Although the family home had been bequeathed to him by his parents, he had never notified the local authority that the occupier was now N D Smith, and the bills for council tax and utilities continued to be addressed to Dr W D Smith.
In normal circumstances it would not have troubled him that the police might be interested in his private affairs. They had no reason to disturb his privacy. But if for any reason they ever had grounds to search the house, it could be embarrassing having to explain why he possessed an officer’s uniform from Hitler’s SS. The fact that his late father collected memorabilia from the Third Reich would be difficult to prove, especially when it became clear that the uniform was an almost perfect fit for Donovan himself. Try explaining that coincidence, he thought.
Worse still, he had been wearing that uniform on the day when Garth Brandon was gunned down in Northampton, and he knew there must have been CCTV footage from traffic cameras showing him cycling away from the scene.
Keep it simple and as close to the truth as possible, he told himself. The Luger, the German war medals, the Leica cameras, the books, even Hitler’s Mein Kampf, had all been left by members of his family. Why did he keep them on his boat? He had explained that artefacts from the Nazi era were banned in Germany, and they had simply found their way to him when he had cleared out his late father’s rooms at Oxford. So far no-one had worked out that at the time of his death Bill Donovan Smith was lecturing in London and Reading, with a house in west London convenient for commuting in both directions.
Donovan had told the police he had not had the heart to throw away any of his father’s possessions when he was a boy. They had been stored in a trunk, impossible to take back to Germany. What else was he to do with them?
Eventually a uniformed sergeant came into the room, handed back the Luger with the firearms certificate and gave Donovan a form to sign for them.
“I’m free to go now?”
“Yes.”
Donovan pocketed the certificate and looked down at the pistol lying on the table, wrapped in its yellow duster. The officer read his thoughts.
“Not easy to carry it around like that. I might be able to get you a carrier bag.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve had the gun a long time?”
“It’s been in the family since 1945 … a memento from the war.”
“You’ve kept it in good condition.”
“My father did before me, and I look after my things.”
“And you clean it regularly?”
Donovan shook his head. “I never even look at it from one year to the next. I just keep it wrapped up in its box.”
“So it hasn’t been fired for a long time?”
Donovan picked it up. “Not since the war, I imagine.”
“If you’d like to wait here, I’ll see if I can find a bag.”
The officer returned a minute later with a carrier from Prêt à Manger. “Best I could do
.”
“It’s great, thanks.”
Donovan extended a hand, which the officer shook before escorting him out.
*
Anne stayed in the flat that evening and had two phone calls. The first was from Donovan. He did not want to say much, except that he was well and back on XO2. The police had treated him in a civil manner and told him he was now free to go where he wished.
“I’m thinking I might go home in a while …” he said, casually, “… take a break, you know.”
“Home?”
“Yes, I haven’t been back to Germany for a while. It’d be good to see the family again.”
Why so stilted? “That would be nice,” Anne agreed.
“Would it be okay for me to come back to the site tomorrow? I might have some more filming to do.”
It’s like talking to a stranger. “Of course. You’ve got your security pass.”
“Yes. Good night, then.”
“Bye.”
Anne had barely disconnected when the landline phone began ringing. It was Marnie.
“Hi. I just tried your mobile, but I got a strange message that your number wasn’t recognised. Is it not working?”
“Could you have misdialled, Marnie?”
“You’re on the speed-dial.”
Anne thought of the artificial conversation with Donovan, the impersonal way he had spoken to her, as if she was just a colleague, the reference to Germany as home, rather than his house in Uxbridge. Donovan, who never did anything without good cause, had been laying a smokescreen. There could be only one reason for that.
“Oh, I was on the phone,” said Anne. “It was just one of the team saying he’d be back tomorrow … Donovan Smith, you know.”
A pause. “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m thinking of looking in, too. Will Philip be around?”
“I think so.”
“Then I’ll see you in the morning.”
After the call ended, Marnie sat wondering what was going on. Anne’s warning signal – using both Donovan’s names as if he was an outsider – had put her on her guard. Did she think the conversation might be bugged? Absurd idea!
Or was it?
18
A Sin of Omission
Friday 13 July, 1997
It was Friday the thirteenth. Donovan noticed the date on the calendar in the galley on XO2 and joked about it when he rang the local British Waterways officer. He explained that he had to return home to Germany and would be gone for perhaps a couple of weeks. They had a good rapport, mainly because Donovan had always made a point of consulting the lengthsman on his movements of the boat. The BW officer knew that Donovan was studying in Uxbridge and was as flexible as he could be about mooring arrangements.
It was agreed that Donovan could leave XO2 in her present location, which was in any case not a restricted mooring, and the lengthsman offered to keep an eye on the boat whenever he passed that way. Donovan left his e-mail address with him, plus the departmental phone number at the university.
Donovan lifted the bike down from the roof and brought it inside, checked that the mooring ropes were well secured and set off, carrying a black overnight bag and a rucksack. As he made his way to the tube station, he scanned parked vehicles as inconspicuously as he could, but saw no-one watching his movements. Perhaps the police were being true to their word and were no longer interested in him as a suspect in the Garth Brandon case. Perhaps, but he was taking no chances.
*
Marnie travelled into town from Watford on the Metropolitan line with the early morning commuters. Like most people on board she looked down at the canal as the train rumbled over the bridge by Cassio Wharf. She craned her neck to see if Thyrsis was visible, but they had tied up for the night in a secluded section of Cassiobury Park, where the waterway disappeared into an avenue of mature trees.
The carriage began filling up as the train passed through London’s outer suburbs, and Marnie rested her head against the window and closed her eyes, dozing like her fellow travellers. She suspected that her reverie was very different from theirs. Her rambling thoughts ranged over a sudden death among ancient Roman vessels in the depths of a building site, the presumed discovery of a king’s lost treasure, the investigation by the police of a friend on suspicion of murder. It was a normal day in the life of Walker and Co.
Marnie had to change trains at Baker Street, struggling through the throng at the busy intersection. As she battled her way along the corridors, up and down the crowded staircases and on the platforms with their tiles depicting the silhouetted head of Sherlock Holmes, she reminded herself that this was one of the reasons she had left London for a more tranquil existence out in the country.
At least, that had been the theory.
*
Donovan stayed on the tube for five stops before getting off at Ruislip. Minutes after exiting the station he was in a taxi heading back towards Uxbridge. Fairly certain that he was not being followed, he nonetheless asked the driver to drop him a short distance from his home and set off to walk the last hundred yards or so once the cab was out of sight.
Inside the house, he dashed up to his bedroom, took the SS uniform from the wardrobe and folded it carefully into the overnight bag after removing the cushions he had stuffed in to make it look full. Gathering up the post and setting the intruder alarm, Donovan quickly left and made for the main road. Luck was with him, and he caught a taxi almost at once.
The fastest way to cross London is by tube, and Donovan rejoined the Metropolitan Line at Ruislip. The clock was ticking, and it was important that he arrive at Horselydown within a reasonable time. Rattling through the tunnels, he turned his thoughts to disposal of the SS uniform. There was no question now of keeping it. There was no hope of dumping it. Forensic examination would undoubtedly reveal traces of his DNA, and he would be hard put to explain that coincidence and how he had overlooked mentioning the uniform to the police.
The more he thought about it, the more he realised there was one perfect solution.
*
It was like a moment from a Hollywood romance. Marnie and Donovan emerged from the depths of the tube station at Tower Hill, and their eyes met across a crowded concourse. Unlike the Hollywood movie, Donovan gave Marnie only a restrained greeting, with not so much as a handshake.
“Shall we at least walk over the bridge together?” Marnie said.
Donovan shook his head. “Probably not a good idea. Are you going to the flat?”
Marnie checked her watch. “It’s too early for my meeting with Philip, so yes.”
“I’ll give you five minutes then join you there, if that’s all right.”
“Sure. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Donovan suddenly realised he had had nothing to eat or drink that morning. Close to the ticket machines he spotted a food stall.
“Good idea. I’ll bring some breakfast.”
He watched Marnie walk away and reflected how much she had become part of his life. With Anne and Ralph they were almost like a family. He had no idea how long that situation would last, but he was grateful for it. He smiled inwardly. When you needed someone to turn to when you had an incriminating Nazi uniform to dispose of, that was when you found out who your true friends were.
He walked casually across to the food stall and made a selection. Would there be three or four of them? Was Ralph already at the flat or still on the boat? He erred on the side of generosity.
“What would you like, dear?” The stall-keeper had a cheerful London voice with a Caribbean lilt.
He pointed. “I’ll have two pains aux raisins, two pains au chocolat and four croissants, please.”
Donovan was pulling a note from his wallet when he heard a voice from beside him.
“You pronounced those like a true continental.”
He glanced up to meet the gaze of a tall young man beaming down at him. He was smartly dressed in the crisp navy blue uniform of a constable of the City of London police.
*
&n
bsp; There was no restraint in the greeting Donovan received from Anne when he arrived at the flat. She threw her arms round his neck and squeezed him tight.
“Careful,” Donovan said, laughing. “You’ll crush my croissants.”
“That sounds painful,” Marnie called from the kitchen.
Anne laughed too as she relinquished her grip and kissed Donovan warmly on the lips.
“So good to have you back,” she breathed.
“I’ve only been gone since yesterday.” As they drew apart Donovan noticed that Anne’s eyes were moist with dark smudges under them. “Hey, what’s all this?”
“It’s nothing, probably just a hormone thing. Or maybe I’m over-tired. For some reason I’m not sleeping properly right now.”
“Or eating properly, I suspect,” Marnie called out on her way to the table with the cafetière. “Shall we put your croissants in the oven for a minute or two, Donovan?”
“I’ll do it,” Anne said, taking the carrier bag from Donovan. “You dump your stuff and have a seat. Won’t be a mo.”
Donovan set his bags down on the floor. “Marnie, I was wondering …”
“Why don’t you tell us the whole story while we eat?” Marnie said. “We’re dying to know what happened, aren’t we, Anne?”
There was no reply. Marnie looked across the peninsular unit and saw that Anne was wiping her eyes on a piece of kitchen roll. Donovan saw her, too.
“Has something happened while I was away?” he asked.
Marnie shrugged and shook her head. She walked through into the kitchen and held Anne by the arms, searching her face. She was a picture of misery. Marnie knew that expression. She had seen it once before, the day they first met when Anne, a fifteen year-old schoolgirl, was running away from home.
“What is it, darling?” Marnie asked gently. “What’s the matter?”
Anne blew her nose loudly into the kitchen roll. “I’m sorry … it’s silly, I know, but …”
Donovan hovered in the background. “Is there anything I can do?”
“This is more than relief, isn’t it, Anne?” Marnie said. “There’s something else?”
Anne nodded. “Donovan’s going to work it out. He always does. And then …”
