by Leo McNeir
Gary was already in the pub when Diane walked in on Monday evening and asked for a tomato juice. The place was busy with tourists and locals.
“Heard anything from Sheena?”
Diane shook her head. “No.”
“So what can you tell me?”
She looked nervous. “I’m not sure. It’s very warm in here.”
“You haven’t come to talk about the weather.”
“I’ve come because I’m concerned about Sheena.”
“We both are.”
“I know that. It’s just …” Gary let her find the words. “You unsettled me by talking about that … person they found in the canal.”
“So what have you got to tell me?”
Diane sipped her drink and frowned. “They usually put a dash of Worcester sauce in these.”
“Diane …”
She sighed. “There may have been something, I’m not certain. It’s just a feeling I had. She was making these kind of secret calls, on her mobile.”
“I know that. You’ve already told me.”
“Well, there was another thing. Until now I didn’t want to mention it.”
“There’s another bloke.”
“How did you know?” Gary gave her the I-wasn’t-born-yesterday look. “Well, it might not have been like that. I dunno, but I’m pretty sure, at least I think, something was going on.”
“Like what?”
“Sheena said something about seeing someone.”
“She was seeing someone else? I know it’s logical, but I still find that hard to believe. I mean, I think I’d know if she was. You can usually tell.”
“Not like that, I don’t think. It was more like, she was going to see someone to have a word with them. You know what I mean?”
“Who?”
Diane shook her head.
Gary leaned forward, his voice low, urgent. “Look, Diane, this is no time to be coy. I’m worried that Sheena may have been pulled out of the canal with her throat cut, and you’re getting touchy in case she’s been chatted up by some bloke. Tell me what you know.”
“She was going to see this person after work, or it may have been later on that evening.”
“What evening?”
“Not sure, just before she phoned in sick, the day before.”
“What did she say?”
“Well, I was coming out of the loo and I heard her say ‘see you later’. She saw me and said she was going to see a friend.”
“You don’t think it could’ve been me?”
“No. I’m sure it wasn’t you. She seemed excited about it.”
“Thanks very much.”
“And she looked somehow, sheepish, in a way nervous.”
Gary lit a cigarette. “Go on.”
“Just a feeling, really. It was like she had something on her mind for the rest of the day.”
“Something or someone?”
“I can’t really explain. She kept finding jobs to do in the shop, keeping herself occupied. She was sort of … withdrawn, like she was thinking about something?”
“And you’ve no idea what it was?”
“I did wonder if it had something to do with some bloke she’d met, but I think there was more to it than that. If that’s what it was, she would’ve talked to me about it … girl talk, you know.”
“And she was going to see this person that evening.”
“Yes.” She sipped the tomato juice. “Oh, and there was something odd she said. It was when I overheard her on the mobile. It sounded as if she called him old boy.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure I heard her say that. It struck me as really weird. I mean, nobody calls anybody that these days, do they? It’s what old blokes with pipes and handle-bar moustaches used to call each other in black and white films.”
“Old boy?” Gary repeated.
“Yeah. I’m sure of it.” Diane lowered her eyes and stared at the tomato juice. “It was the last time I ever saw her.”
Walking home from the pub after supper on Monday evening, Marnie noticed that Sally Ann looked better by moonlight. The shortcomings in the welding and the odd blemish in her paintwork were camouflaged by the shadows.
She had left a light burning on board to welcome her back and as she drew near to Sally Ann she stopped and took in the scene. The boat was no longer a collection of mysteries. The canal had stopped being a cause of anxiety. Now, it seemed like her natural element.
Looking down the long line of moored boats, some with lights, most in darkness, Braunston felt like a safe haven. Sally Ann looked peaceful, nestling at the bank, but her water tank was brimming, the fuel tank was replenished and a new gas bottle was stored in the locker. With each day that passed, Marnie sensed that both she and her boat were becoming restless.
Gary went to take a cigarette from the packet and found it was empty. He read the government warning: Smoking can seriously damage your health. So can women, he thought.
Wanting to keep a clear head, he had barely touched a drop all evening. Earlier in the pub with Diane he had only drunk half a pint of lager. But back on Garrow he had smoked a whole pack of Marlboro that evening, and the boat was like a kipper factory.
He threw the empty packet along with the Standard into the waste bin. The paper only carried a brief piece about the body in the canal. The police were still asking for information about missing people. Was Sheena missing?
He was rationing his phone calls to her mobile now: morning, noon and night, once each. Time for the night call. He pressed the buttons and heard the answerphone voice, idly imagining her adding something to the message: The person you are phoning is not available. Please try again later … old boy.
Diane must have misheard Sheena. Why would she call anybody “old boy’? It was daft, she –
He stopped in mid-thought. Wake up, Gary! She wasn’t saying ‘old boy’ to someone; she was talking about an ‘old boy’.
And that could only mean one person.
By Tuesday Marnie was beginning to feel like a local. The staff in the marina and boatyards recognised her and greeted her as she passed. In the shop she amazed herself, buying no fewer than seven waterways books and was delighted to see her library growing on the shelf in the boat.
She rang Jane and Mrs Jolly for a chat, but felt no need to phone Philip at the office, even to touch base. Her stylish London friends were mostly away on holiday in exotic locations, Antigua, the islands of the Aegean, Thailand, the Red Sea. Here she was, living on an old tub of a narrowboat, adopted by a black cat, temporarily staying in a village in Northamptonshire that no-one outside the canal world had ever heard of.
Everything about her situation seemed right.
Gary spent the whole of Tuesday driving a waterbus. Still no word from Sheena. But he had had plenty of time to think about what had been happening and he had got it all worked out. Nearly all.
This was how he saw it. Sheena had met Gravel and told him that Gary could not find out anything about Marnie or her connection with the old boy. Gravel had not taken offence – Gary could work out why not – and he had talked to her about Old Peter and his valuables. Gravel had thought Sheena stood a better chance of getting information out of him than Gary. That would explain the secret phone calls about the old boy. It would also explain Sheena’s excitement. She had her eye on the chance to get a share of whatever might be going. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Gary had been looking out for Old Peter all day but had seen nothing of the old man or his boat. The words of a pop song came into his mind: Everyone’s gone to the moon. It must be getting crowded up there, he thought.
After work Gary found a note tucked into Garrow’s side door. Mike Brent wanted to see him at the BW office the next day. He hoped it meant more work. He also hoped it did not involve asking Vince for the use of his JCB.
32
Totteridge
Wednesday morning started cloudy and cool, though the forecast promised sunny periods.
With her usual mug of coffee steaming on the hatch, Marnie pressed the starter button. The engine turned over and stopped. She pressed it again with the same result. Mentally she ran through a checklist that she knew by heart.
She switched on the fuel pump and pressed the button, letting the engine turn over for several seconds on the starter motor. Sally Ann coughed smoke from her exhaust pipe and rattled into life. Marnie kept the engine running for five minutes and switched off. After five more minutes she went through the starting routine again. The engine fired first time.
We’re both in need of exercise, Marnie thought as she cast off. They eased past moored boats towards the junction and followed the main line under the left-hand bridge. The North Oxford led away to the right.
The contrast with Braunston was immediate. Within minutes Marnie was heading south-west through a deserted landscape of rolling open country, with scarcely a house in sight. She stretched her limbs, feeling glad to be underway again. She took a deep breath and turned her eyes towards the hills on the horizon.
In little more than an hour they reached Napton Junction. With the sun breaking through the morning clouds behind her, Marnie steered Sally Ann into the South Oxford Canal.
Gary stepped out onto the towpath on Wednesday morning and turned his face up to the sun. He took a deep breath. This was a wonderful summer and no mistake. Too bad he was lacking a girlfriend to share it. Too bad his throat felt like sand paper.
As usual Mike Brent was the first one in the office. Instead of chatting in reception, Mike led him along to his room. This made Gary suspicious. The two of them were alone in the building and Mike had closed the door.
“Look, no pressure, Gary, no hassle, but … the police have been asking about you.”
“About me?”
“They want to see you.”
Gary was astonished. “What for?”
Mike shrugged. “It seems they were talking to some people in the pub. Someone mentioned you’d been asking around about a woman who’d gone missing?”
“Missing? Well, not exactly …”
“What then?”
“I haven’t seen her for a while, that’s all.”
“So where is she?”
“Dunno.”
“I think that’s what the police would call a missing person, Gary. It seems a fair description.”
“Why would they be interested in my girlfriend?”
“You know they’re making enquiries about this woman they found in the canal.”
“Yeah?”
“Like I said, Gary, no hassle but … you didn’t think it was worth contacting them about your missing person?”
Gary made a dismissive gesture. “She’s not a missing person. She’s just … away on holiday.”
“Then why are you asking everyone if they know where she is?”
“Mike, who’s side are you on?”
Mike raised his palms upwards. “I’m just passing on the message. It might look odd if she’s just gone on her holidays and you’re asking if anyone knows what’s become of her.”
Gary slumped into a chair. “Yeah. I know. What do they want me to do?”
Mike picked up a business card from his desk. “They said you should contact this officer. Tell her about your girlfriend.”
Gary read the card, Detective Constable Anita Griffiths, and tucked it into his back pocket. “Did this detective tell you anything about the, er, person they found?”
Mike shook his head. “I don’t think that’s how they work, Gary.”
Of course not, Gary thought. Silly me.
After Braunston, the Oxford Canal felt like a by-water, rural and timeless. Marnie had not seen another boat since her departure. Ahead the land was rising and soon she was skirting Napton Hill, topped by its windmill.
The Oxford was a narrow canal, which meant the locks were only wide enough for one boat at a time. Even so, Marnie found the gates and paddles no less stiff to operate as she began working her way up the flight to the summit.
Nine locks, two and a half hours later, sweaty but exhilarated, she stopped beyond the top lock and walked back onto the bridge to admire the countryside. A secluded land of undulating meadows and spinneys, it seemed unaltered since the 1780s when navigators had dug the canal through fields that even then had changed little since the Middle Ages.
After a flannel lick over her upper body, a blast of deodorant spray and a fresh T-shirt, Marnie ate cheese and tomatoes on deck, shaded from the noonday sun by the parasol in the peace and solitude of the pastoral landscape.
She was ready to face the afternoon, but the engine coughed twice before starting. Pushing off, she pulled the lever into forward gear and pressed down the accelerator. She had reached mid-channel when the engine cut out. She engaged neutral and pressed the starter button. To her relief it fired at once. To her dismay it stopped as soon as she put it into gear.
Another attempt with the starter; another failure. Marnie grabbed the pole from the roof and began punting Sally Ann to the bank. The boat swung, the nose veered round and stuck in the mud of the shallows. They were now aground at one end, completely blocking the channel. All Marnie’s efforts with the pole came to nothing. However hard she pushed on either side, the boat only became more bogged down, the pole harder to pull out of the claggy bottom.
Marnie laid the pole on the roof. Gobs of mud stained the cream paintwork and rivulets of gunk oozed down the side. She lifted out the deck panels. For all its bulk, the engine looked a simple construction. Marnie slid out the dipstick, wiped it with a tissue and checked the oil was up to the mark. She dismantled the fuel filter and inspected the bowl. It seemed okay but she cleaned it nonetheless.
She tried the starter again. The engine turned and turned but failed to fire. It had to be a blockage in the fuel line. She was opening the tool box when she heard the familiar sound of lock paddles turning.
Marnie looked towards the lock, fifty yards away. The gate swung open and a boat emerged. Her heart sank. She wished Sally Ann could do the same. It was the unmistakeable shape of a working boat.
After her experience with the pair in Braunston tunnel, Marnie expected no mercy.
Gary broke the habit of a lifetime. No pie and pint for lunch in the pub that day. He grabbed a sandwich and a Coke from the floating café. His prompt return to the waterbus surprised the other drivers.
“What’s up, Gary, not feeling well?”
He shook his head. “Short of staff, thought I’d work through.”
The small queue of passengers began boarding his waterbus. In the five minutes before departure he ate the sandwich and gulped down the drink. From his back pocket he pulled out the business card. WDC Anita Griffiths, Metropolitan Police. He had never seen her, but he guessed she looked about twelve. Where had the old-style detectives gone? Where were the square-jawed six-footers with trilby hats, size eleven shoes and belted raincoats? No proper detective could be called Anita. It was a kid’s name.
Then why was he putting off seeing her?
The working boat glided slowly towards Sally Ann and stopped a few yards short. A man stood up in the bows and looked down at Marnie. Without a word he reached into the hold and produced a rope, coiling it in his hands for throwing.
“If you fasten that to the T-bracket I’ll pull you off.”
Marnie heard the rhythmic pop-popping of an old-fashioned engine and felt the power as the rope tautened and dragged her clear. They tied up at the bank in line astern.
Marnie tried the engine again, desperate to get it running, desperate not to have an arrogant working boatman sneering at her inadequacies.
“Thanks for your help.” She tried not to sound grudging. “That was good of you.”
The man nodded. “That’s all right.”
“I’ve got engine trouble.”
Marnie explained the symptoms and how she had tried to resolve the situation. He listened, head on one side. When she finished, she waited for him to t
ell her the problem was child’s play and put it right with a flick of the wrist.
“Mm … you seem to have done everything you should. D’you think maybe you’ve got a blockage?”
“I was going to check the fuel line from the filter to the inlet manifold.”
“Can I give you a hand?”
“Well I –”
“I’m not brilliant at engines,” he said, “but it’s got to be worth a try.”
They worked side by side. Marnie undid the clip holding the fuel pipe in place and disconnected it from the filter. The newcomer held a jam jar underneath to catch any escaping diesel. He was tall and rangy, in his twenties, in check shirt and jeans, with sandy hair. John Lennon glasses made him look scholarly.
Liquid squirted into the jar and the smell of diesel filled the air. The young man shook his head, reconnected the pipe and crouched over the engine, running a long finger under linkages, cables and joints.
“You said you’d cleaned out the filter?”
“Yes.”
“What colour was it?”
“Pink.”
“Red,” he muttered quietly to himself.
“Well it looked pink to me.”
He grinned at her. “It is, only officially it’s called red diesel.”
“Oh, yes … I knew that.”
He stood up. “I think there’s only one thing for it. I’ll tow you to the nearest boatyard.”
“How far is it?”
“Best part of ten miles, I think.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose on you like that.”
He smiled. “Do we have any choice?”
“I hate to be a burden.”
“That’s all right. I’ve always wanted a butty.”
Marnie hesitated. “Then … I present the butty, Sally Ann and steerer, Marnie.”
“I’m Andrew.” A mock bow. “Of the motor boat, Totteridge.”
They shook grimy, oil-stained hands.
It clouded over in the afternoon as the butty, Sally Ann, trailed the motor boat, Totteridge, at a distance of about five yards. It was peaceful travelling in tandem without the clatter of the Lister, and Marnie concentrated hard, determined not to run aground.
