Stick in the Mud: A riveting murder mystery

by Leo McNeir

  Too true, Anne thought. “Did you try booting it?”

  Ralph hesitated. “I must say I was sorely tempted.”

  “Sorry?”

  “To boot it … into the canal …”

  For the next several minutes Anne guided Ralph through a series of steps to try to reawaken the machine. Nothing he did brought any reaction. Hearing the prolonged conversation, Marnie came out of the bedroom and stood beside Anne.

  “Hang on, Ralph. Marnie’s here. I’ll see if she has any ideas.”

  Anne explained the problem and passed the handset to Marnie.

  “Hi, Ralph. I think Anne’s suggested everything I’d try doing.” She heard a loud sigh at the other end. “Look, there’s an IT firm in Stony Stratford – Extreme Solutions, or something of the sort. Perhaps you should give them a call. The number’s in my address book under C for computer.”

  “Ah, Marnie, that reminds me. There’s a message on the answerphone from Beth. Hang on. I’ll just play it through.”

  Marnie waited, asking Anne quietly if she had any other bright ideas. Anne was shaking her head despondently when Ralph came back on the line.

  “It’s not my day. Bloody answerphone’s on the blink now.”

  A pause. “Try turning on your desk lamp, Ralph.”

  “What good will that –?”

  “Indulge me … please.”

  Silence. A faint click in the background.

  “No luck?” Marnie said.

  “Oh God … it’s a power cut, isn’t it?”

  “Tell me about Beth’s message.”

  “I feel like a complete –”

  “The message, Ralph.

  “Well, it was long and rambling and I didn’t listen to it all the way through.”

  “I’ll ring her. Thanks, Ralph.”

  “Marnie …”

  “It’s all right. These things happen.”

  When Beth picked up the phone she sounded agitated.

  “At last!”

  “What’s up, Beth?”

  “Have you been listening to the news?”

  “We’ve been in meetings. What is it?”

  “Apparently a body’s been washed up some place in East Anglia.”

  Marnie felt her cheeks go numb. Anne saw her expression and felt a knot in her stomach.

  “When was this?” Marnie said.

  “Some time early this morning, I think. I picked it up on the ten o’clock news.”

  “Did they give any details … location, sex, age, anything at all?”

  “Somewhere on the Lincolnshire coast, I think it was. Nothing else.”

  Marnie looked at her watch. “Thanks, Beth. We’ll catch the PM programme at five.”

  After disconnecting, Marnie explained what had happened to Anne. They sat in silence to digest the news. Simultaneously they thought of Gerald Parfitt. Anne had several numbers for him and began with the mobile. Not available. His home number connected immediately to voicemail. Not a good sign. The last chance was the university department.

  “I’m afraid Dr Parfitt isn’t in today.”

  “I’ve tried his other numbers but couldn’t reach him. It’s very important I speak with him.”

  “Are you a student? Can anyone else help?”

  “I’m involved in the Horselydown excavations in London. I need to contact Dr Parfitt on an urgent matter.”

  “And your name, please?”

  “Anne Price. I’m a colleague of the joint site directors, Dick Blackwood and Dr Zoë Tipton.”

  “Ah, yes … I see. Well, Miss Price, I can inform you that Dr Parfitt is out of the country.”

  “But I saw him just a few days ago. He didn’t say he was going away.”

  “That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

  Anne’s mind was racing. “Has he returned to Denmark?”

  “Er …”

  “Okay. I understand. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “He left yesterday or the day before. I believe he’ll be back after the weekend.”

  “From Roskilde?”

  “I can’t really –”

  “Thank you. Goodbye.” Anne hung up.

  Marnie immediately asked if she could have the receiver. Muttering, we can’t just sit around waiting, she asked directory enquiries for the Lincolnshire Coastguard Service and was given the number of the nearest regional station based in Great Yarmouth. She might have known she would draw a blank. The duty officer was able to confirm that the yacht Arabella had been located off the coast and that a body had been washed up near a place called Wainfleet St Mary. If she had any information that might help the police identify the person in question, she should contact them at their office in Skegness. No other information was available at that time.

  After hanging up, Marnie walked over to the windows looking down on the river. She thought of all the dramas that had played out over thousands of years on the waters surrounding Great Britain, the triumphs and tragedies that were part of the everyday life of an island nation. She spoke as she turned to face into the room.

  “Let’s go home.”

  But the room was empty. Seconds later, Anne appeared from the spare bedroom, holding her overnight bag.

  *

  The journey back to Knightly St John was tedious and tiring. They left at the heart of the evening rush hour and found themselves snarled up in one jam after another. Traffic was heavy through London, a slow stop-start crawl north to beyond the outer suburbs where they picked up the Orbital motorway, the M25, known locally as Europe’s biggest car park, and eventually inched their way onto the M1. To the joys of travelling on the principal northbound artery were added the miseries of successive roadworks, designed to improve the capacity of the highway and intensify the bad tempers of its users.

  Cocooned inside the Discovery, Marnie and Anne were protected from external sounds and weather by thick insulation and climate control. The summer had temporarily given way to overcast skies with the occasional sprinkle of drizzle. They settled back into their chunky leather seats and passed the time listening to the early evening news programmes on the radio. There was no mention of the body washed up on a lonely stretch of shoreline in the east. All interest seemed to be focused on the policies being introduced by the new government and the activities of Princess Diana on holiday with the new man in her life.

  Marnie remarked on the contrast between creeping home by car and the pleasurable journeys they had enjoyed on that same route on Sally Ann and Thyrsis. Anne laughed.

  “The only difference, Marnie, is that their journeys take more than four days.”

  “Yes, well, we’re not home yet,” Marnie replied, ominously.

  They were thankful when they eventually turned off the motorway and took less busy county roads towards the village. Both sighed with pleasure when they pulled off the dual carriageway and followed the by-way to Knightly St John. Their sense of well-being was complete when they drove along the high street and turned onto the field track sloping down to Glebe Farm whose rooftops they spied above the trees ahead of them.

  Climbing out of the car, they stretched and breathed in deep lungfuls of clean country air. They left their bags behind them and strode at once through the spinney to the docking area. Under a leaden sky that threatened rain, lights were visible in both boats. They knew Ralph had left them burning deliberately to create a welcoming sight for their return home. As they boarded Sally Ann, their nostrils were assailed by aromas of cooking, a heady mixture of aromatic delights, blending savoury and creamy ingredients with a whiff of herbs and spices.

  Ralph broke off from stirring a pan to kiss Marnie on the lips and Anne on the cheek.

  “Perfect timing,” he said. “Are you ready to eat?”

  “How can I put this …?” Marnie began.

  Anne merely groaned.

  Ralph smiled. “Don’t bother. I get the picture. Have you enough strength left after the journey to take a bottle of wine out of the fridge and o
pen it?”

  Marnie needed no second bidding. She found a chilled rosé from Veneto and set to with the corkscrew that Anne handed her. Ralph was adding cream to onions and mushrooms in the pan and transferred the mixture to a jug after a few seconds’ more stirring.

  “Ready in three minutes,” he said, turning his attention to the wok that was resting on the hob. He poured in a tablespoon of olive oil and swirled it round. “I’ll be ready by the time you’ve poured the wine.”

  He was as good as his word. While Marnie filled the glasses, Anne chopped a baguette into chunks. All thoughts of the horrendous crawl from London were disappearing from their memories. Ralph tipped a bowl of chopped vegetables into the wok and worked them round with a wooden spoon. At his request, Anne lit nightlights under plate-warmers on the table. Leaving the vegetables on a reduced heat, Ralph knelt at the oven and removed a dish covered with baking foil.

  “Ralph, what have you been doing?” Marnie said in wonder. “You must’ve been cooking all day.”

  “Just my usual peasant food,” he replied. “Dead easy. The salmon’s been marinating all afternoon and baking for the past twelve minutes. I made my mother’s favourite sauce …” He offered Marnie the jug. ‘… plus a few vegetables that I’ve just stir-fried. Simple.”

  “What peasants had this?” Anne asked, serving herself from the dish.

  “Various ones, really.” He pointed at the salmon and vegetables. “Those are basically Vietnamese and Chinese …” He raised the jug to pour sauce over the salmon on his plate. “This is … well, St John’s Wood, I suppose.”

  “Ah … those peasants,” Marnie said, raising her glass. “To our master peasant chef. Long live the paddy fields of St John’s Wood.”

  Marnie had no desire to spoil the meal, but Ralph was anxious to know how their day had gone, and while they ate she gave him an account of the main events. The evening drew on rapidly under dark clouds, and Marnie lit the oil lamps to counteract the gathering gloom. By the time they were clearing the plates from the main course, rain was streaking the windows. Ralph declared he could banish the dismal weather in a trice, which he did by producing a bowl of summer fruits, a medley of strawberries, raspberries and redcurrants, which he served with a dish of Greek yogurt. Over a second glass of rosé, the day gradually seemed not so bad after all.

  They dealt with the washing-up while the kettle boiled for coffee. Sitting in the saloon by lamplight, they agreed to put off until the next day the phone call to the police in Norfolk. All three of them were ready for a shower and an early night.

  Anne retired to her attic room to phone Donovan, hoping for more good news about his uncle. Marnie and Ralph lit sandalwood joss sticks in holders on the draining board in the galley to freshen the atmosphere. Feeling pleasantly drowsy, they crossed the docking area to Thyrsis. Marnie lit another joss stick – snow jasmine – on the shelf over the bed in the sleeping cabin, while Ralph used the shower.

  That night under the duvet they made love languidly to the drumming of rain falling on the roof. For a short while they were able to banish from their minds all thoughts of the body lying under a shroud on a steel rack in a mortuary a hundred miles away.

  28

  The Morgue

  Friday 27 July, 1997

  On Friday morning Marnie went into Ralph’s study on Thyrsis and fired up his computer. While Ralph and Anne prepared breakfast on Sally Ann, she went online to find the phone number for the police service in Lincolnshire. Their website offered several divisional HQs around the county. The obvious choice was the Coast Division. Unable to contain her impatience, she rang the number at once. When asked by the switchboard operator what was the nature of her enquiry, she replied that it concerned the body washed up on the beach at Wainfleet St Mary.

  The operator put her through to a woman officer whose manner was business-like but not unfriendly.

  “You believe you can assist our enquiries, madam?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but it’s possible.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “Marnie Walker.”

  After noting all Marnie’s contact details, the officer continued.

  “Briefly, what leads you to think you might know the identity of the deceased?”

  “A colleague … a friend … has gone missing, and the boat he was probably using has been picked up by the Coastguard several miles out from the marina at Whittleham. That’s in –”

  “I know where it is. And the name of this boat?”

  “Arabella … owned by Dr Gerald Parfitt of the University of East Anglia.”

  “Yes, I see. You said your colleague was probably using it?”

  “We have reason to believe he may have borrowed it from Dr Parfitt, who’s a friend of his.” Marnie almost winced at her use of the phrase, reason to believe. It felt like playing a part in a TV drama. ‘… was a friend of his,” she added.

  “Did your colleague normally use this boat?”

  “Yes, he did, regularly … either with the owner or solo, with his permission.”

  “Are you speaking on behalf of the owner?”

  It was an odd question and caught Marnie off-guard.

  “In a way, I suppose … well, no, not as such. Dr Parfitt is out of the country at the moment, in Denmark on business.”

  “And your reason for contacting us?”

  “I wondered … if the body had been identified.”

  “Can you give me a description of your missing colleague, and a name.”

  “He’s called Dick Blackwood … mid-twenties, medium height and build, short brown hair … like a crew cut … blue eyes, I think.”

  “If required, would you be willing to identify the body?”

  This was the part Marnie had been dreading. “If necessary … yes.”

  Five minutes later Marnie crossed the docking area and stepped aboard Sally Ann. Two expectant faces looked up at her from the table as she made her way through to the saloon.

  “You’ve spoken to them, haven’t you?” Ralph pulled out a chair for Marnie.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “What did they say?”

  “No-one has yet come forward to identify the body.”

  “Did they ask you to do it?”

  Marnie nodded. “Apparently, they took the … they took him to a mortuary in Boston.”

  *

  The last place Marnie wanted to go that Friday morning was to a mortuary two hours’ drive away, but she knew she had no choice. Filling the Discovery at the local garage, she consoled herself with the thought that at least they would be bringing that sad episode in their lives to a conclusion. The Horselydown project would now forever be tainted. What should have been a great achievement in her professional life, bringing a degree of renown plus not inconsiderable financial rewards, would always remind her of the untimely death of two talented people – Miles Fennimore and Dick Blackwood – and the near-fatal accident to another, Zoë Tipton.

  The smiling Bangladeshi at the counter took her credit card, ran it through his machine and handed the payment slip to Marnie to sign.

  “Doing anything special this weekend, Marnie?” he asked.

  “Not really.” She wrote her signature and gave him back the slip and pen.

  “Oh well, have a good one anyway.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  During the pit-stop Ralph had remained in the car, studying the road atlas. When Marnie climbed in beside him, he outlined a route. It seemed logical and reasonably direct. Ralph offered to split the driving with her, but she said she preferred to have something to do that demanded all her concentration.

  “You don’t have to do it, Marnie.”

  “Honestly, Ralph, I’d prefer –”

  “No. I mean, you don’t have to do the identification. I know Dick. I’ll handle it when we get there.”

  “But, Ralph –”

  “No arguments. I’ve made up my mind.”

  Marnie leaned over and
kissed him. Without a word, she palmed the car into first gear, released the handbrake and steered towards the highway.

  *

  Meanwhile, back in the office at Glebe Farm, Anne sat at her desk trying to keep occupied, a bundle of mixed emotions. As she attended to the filing, her thoughts continuously strayed to Marnie and Ralph on their grim mission. She dreaded the call they had promised at the end of the morning. On the other hand, she was anxious to have more updates from Donovan on the progress being made by his uncle – even she thought of him now only as Onkel Helmut – though she knew he was not yet out of danger.

  There were designs to examine – a key part of her training programme – and the bank statements needed to be checked and entered into the accounts. Anne soon realised she lacked the concentration for either activity. Instead, she applied herself to cleaning and tidying the office.

  First, she assembled the equipment in the middle of the kitchen area, arranging the vacuum cleaner, brooms, brushes, mop and bucket in a neat row. They reminded her at once of the orderly methods of the archaeologists. They always lined up their wheelbarrows, picks, mattocks and all the other paraphernalia in regimental fashion at each refreshment break on a dig. Anne banished this further association with Dick Blackwood from her mind and set to work.

  She pressed on for an hour or so, interrupted only by the arrival of the morning post and the occasional phone call. When she finished, the whole place looked good enough for a photo shoot. Anne smiled to herself, imagining Marnie walking in and walking straight out again, joking that she must be in the wrong office. But she knew there would be no smiling or joking that morning.

  *

  The traffic was relatively easy on their cross-country route, and Marnie suggested a short break for coffee after an hour on the road. She took the opportunity to phone Anne and ask how things were going. Anne reported nothing significant in the post and relayed messages from two clients just back from their holidays.

  The good news had come from Donovan. Onkel Helmut had had a restful night and was making a steady recovery. All the indicators were so far positive. Marnie could hear the relief in Anne’s voice. Before disconnecting, she promised to phone again as soon as their business in Boston was concluded. In little more than an hour they would have a result.