Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  “Marnie! I was just thinking about you. How’s the trip going? Where are you?”

  “North of Banbury. A spot of engine trouble, but it’s okay. Why were you thinking about me?”

  “There’s someone else taking an interest in your whereabouts.”

  Marnie stiffened. “Really?”

  “Roger Broadbent.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know Roger. He moors near you. Rumpole? He’s a solicitor.”

  “Why would he be interested in me? Has Gary been using my mooring for illicit activities?”

  “He asked if I knew you and could get hold of you.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “He didn’t want me to.”

  “He didn’t say what he wanted?”

  “Nope. Just said it wasn’t urgent.”

  First Gary, then the stranger on the towpath, now a solicitor. Marnie thought she had never been in such demand. But why? She could find no answer to that question.

  Gary was seeing a group of Japanese tourists onto the waterbus when Eddy Waterman, the supervisor, came by and whispered in his ear.

  “What time is it, Gary?”

  Gary checked his watch. “Five to two.”

  “I meant, what time’s the funeral?”

  “Eh?”

  “I assume by the look on your face that that’s where you’re going.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “What’s up, Gary? These days you’re such a miserable sod. You’re supposed to be making the customers feel welcome. These people have come thousands of miles to see the sights of London. A trip on a waterbus through Little Venice is one of the highlights of their visit. And you look as if you’re about to ferry them over the Styx.”

  “What sticks?”

  “Forget it. Just try at least to look friendly, all right?”

  “I am friendly.”

  “Then try showing it.” Eddy beamed at Gary. “Get it?”

  “Right.”

  “What is bothering you, Gary?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine. Wonderful.” Gary turned towards the passengers. “Come along, please, ladies and gentlemen.” He turned on his broadest smile. “Welcome aboard. Pass right down inside.”

  One elderly Japanese couple bowed towards him.

  Gary bowed back and smiled again. “Sayonara,” he said confidently.

  The couple hesitated momentarily, but followed the rest of the group down the steps into the boat. They were looking forward to their trip. It was a highlight of their holiday.

  At Banbury the undulating countryside of meadows and pockets of woodland gave way to industrial estates. Marnie chugged through and found a mooring in the town centre within sight of Adrian Poulsby’s boatyard. It felt reassuring.

  A market was in full swing, a place of bustle and activity against a backdrop of cranes and scaffolding. Notice boards proclaimed the construction of a leisure centre and museum. Half an hour in the supermarket and a tour of the local stalls replenished Sally Ann’s store cupboards.

  Casting off, Marnie cruised slowly past the boatyard and spotted Adrian deep in discussion with a customer. In the dry-dock another man was squatting to inspect the rusted hull of an elderly working boat with peeling paintwork. Adrian glanced over, recognised Marnie and smiled. She waved back, pointed down at the engine compartment and gave a thumbs-up. Adrian looked thoughtful as he watched her pass.

  Turning her attention to the next stage of the journey, Marnie estimated that if she made steady progress she could be in Oxford by Sunday evening. She headed out into open country.

  It was another Boys-Night-In for Gary. He was wondering what had happened to his life when a thump on the boat’s side doors made him freeze. Quickly he cleared dishes from the table into the sink and opened one of the doors.

  Two men stood on the towpath, shoulder to shoulder, tall, broad, unsmiling. They reached into their pockets and produced warrant cards. Gary glanced at the logo of the Metropolitan Police, pushed open the other door and stood back to let the men down the steps.

  Gary remained standing. “Look, I was going to come round in the morning. I’ve been at work all day. It’s a busy time, tourists and that, and –”

  “Come round?” The card had identified the speaker as a detective sergeant.

  “Yeah. Only I didn’t think it was urgent.”

  “What was urgent?”

  “Sheena, that’s my girlfriend. She’s not really missing, well, not the way you mean by that –”

  “Let’s start again at the beginning. You are Mr …?”

  “Gary. Everyone just calls me Gary. That’s how it is on the boats.”

  “That isn’t how it is to the police, Mr …”

  “Greener. Gary Greener … of Garrow.”

  “Of where?”

  “That’s the boat.”

  “This is your normal residence?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now tell us why you were going to call round about something that wasn’t urgent.”

  “It’s about my girlfriend, Sheena. She’s, well, she’s away at present.”

  “This is the missing person who isn’t missing?”

  “That’s right. Diane from the shop says she’s just away on holiday.”

  “We wouldn’t normally class that as a missing person as such, Mr Greener.”

  “No. That’s why –”

  “It isn’t urgent.”

  “You got it.”

  “Then why were you going to come round?”

  Gary frowned. This line of questioning was confusing him. No wonder people confessed to things. “Anita Griffiths left me her card, said she wanted me to call in.”

  “WDC Anita Griffiths?”

  “Yes. Didn’t she send you?”

  “Nobody sent me, Mr Greener. I’m conducting enquiries.”

  “About Sheena?”

  “I haven’t come to chat about your girlfriend’s holiday. I want to talk to you about another of your friends, Dave Naylor.”

  Gary was confused again. “Who?”

  “The man you’ve been meeting regularly in the pub over the past few weeks, Mr Greener.”

  “Oh … him.”

  “I understand you haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “That’s right.”

  “When exactly did you last see him?”

  “Not sure. A week or two back.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No idea.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Like you said, a few weeks.”

  “And the nature of your acquaintance?”

  “Business, sort of …”

  “What sort of business would that be?”

  Gary was feeling uncomfortable. “Look, what is all this?”

  “You tell me, Gary.”

  “I met this bloke in the pub, right? He tells me he’s interested in boats, right? Asks me about how much they cost to buy, how much to run, stuff like that. A lot of people talk to me like that. Boats are what I do. It was just casual chat in the pub.”

  “So he was interested in buying a boat and asked your advice?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Was he or wasn’t he?”

  “Hard to tell. Sometimes people just like to chat.”

  “That’s all it was?”

  “Yeah.”

  The detective smiled. “Well, that wasn’t so painful, was it?”

  “No. Is that everything?”

  “I think so.”

  Gary moved towards the doors and unlatched the first one.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Mr Greener. Nice boat.”

  “Yeah.” Gary pushed one door open and unbolted the second.

  The detective who until then had not spoken, turned as he walked over to the doors. “So where’s she on holiday, then? Somewhere nice?”

  “Who, Sheena?”

/>   “Who else?”

  “Er, I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure? Didn’t she tell you where she was going? No postcard … weather great, food great, wish you were here?”

  Gary hesitated. “No.”

  “It’s not so strange, is it, Gary? Women are like that.”

  “No, I suppose not. You’re right. It’s not that strange.”

  “They can be unpredictable.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Even so, you miss her.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice, is she? Good looking?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Blonde, good figure, legs up to her armpits?”

  Gary swallowed. “Something like that.”

  Suddenly the detective sergeant turned and faced Gary at close quarters. “I’ll tell you what is, strange, Gary. You tell us you don’t know your friend, Dave Naylor, very well. Yet he meets you in the pub and buys you double whiskies. I think I’d remember a friend like that. We’ll talk again soon.”

  The two men left without another word. Gary sat down in the saloon and opened a packet of Marlboro. He was wondering how, if the detectives had come to see him about Gravel, they knew Sheena was blonde, with a good figure and had legs up to her armpits.

  35

  The Henrys

  For Marnie it should have been an idyllic weekend’s cruising. Once clear of Banbury she was back in rolling country, the Cherwell valley, dotted with copses and spinneys, pastureland and water meadows.

  But she was troubled by a niggling anxiety. Each time the engine note varied, she worried it would cut out and leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere. She travelled from one charming area to another, past old canal buildings and cottages, through a variety of locks, most of which seemed deeper than those on the Grand Union, their depth exaggerated by their narrowness. The exception was Aynho Weir Lock, which was diamond-shaped and more spacious than the others.

  Her target for Saturday evening was Aynho Wharf and a pub supper, but having made good time, and with plentiful supplies on board, she changed plans and continued on towards Somerton. Only one obstacle lay ahead on that stretch: Somerton Deep Lock.

  Descending in the chamber, Marnie felt misgivings as the stone edges of the lockside receded inch by inch above her. Down and down she went between the slimy walls. She had been in deep locks before, but this was unlike any other. Scarcely wider than the boat, it felt to Marnie as if she was being lowered into her grave.

  Gary had never felt so restless. In Little Venice on Saturday night all was peace and quiet. It was quiet too on Garrow but Gary was not at peace. He had worked all day finishing off jobs on the boat with the new fuel pump.

  That evening alone on his boat, he had no desire to go to the pub, but stayed in with a couple of beers and whisky chasers, worrying all the while about Sheena.

  A thought suddenly occurred to him: was he still expected to contact WDC Griffiths, or had he now been passed on to the other two detectives? Anita Griffiths wanted to talk to him about Sheena and the dead body pulled out of the canal in east London. The two men wanted to talk to him about Gravel, aka Dave Naylor. Marvellous. Gary had never been so sought after. He poured himself another whisky and mulled over his predicament.

  The police were pursuing him on all sides.

  It was evening and the galley smelled of freshly-baked bread. Marnie had just taken a baguette out of the oven and set it aside to cool. She added French dressing to a green salad and chopped chives into omelette mixture, pausing to take a sip of spritzer as a knob of butter melted in the pan.

  Over supper, her thoughts returned to Iris Winterburn. Afterwards she took the books about the Idle Women from the shelf and thumbed through them, hoping to find a mention of one called Iris. No luck.

  She hoped the old lady had recovered completely from her injury. Something about Iris Winterburn told Marnie she was a survivor.

  When the mobile rang out just after ten, Gary almost fell off his chair.

  “Hallo?”

  “Gary, it’s Eddy, Eddy Waterman.”

  “What’s up?” Gary could feel his stomach knotting.

  “Sorry to phone so late, hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “What is it, Eddy?”

  “I’m a man short for tomorrow. Robbie’s phoned in to say –”

  “You want me to cover for him?”

  “Could you?”

  “Sure. Usual time?”

  “That’s brilliant.”

  “Cash at the end of the day?”

  “Well, I’m not sure, Gary. That might be difficult.” Gary remained silent. “All right.”

  “Great.”

  “Thanks, Gary. I wish all my problems could be solved that easily.”

  So do I, Gary thought as he disconnected.

  Marnie set off early on Sunday morning, determined to reach Oxford that evening. The engine fired first time, thumping steadily with faint puffs of light grey smoke.

  The canal was lined by willows, and as Sally Ann chugged along, Marnie had the waterway to herself. The only reminder of the outside world was the glimpse of a train beyond the fields scurrying north. By the time most holiday boaters were blinking a first eye in their cabins, Marnie was well south of Lower Heyford. She had passed through woodland just as the sun began to burn off the cloud cover, and rays of bright light splayed across the water.

  More tree-lined banks followed, with here a view of a packhorse bridge spanning the river, there an abandoned mill. Everywhere trees threw their shadows over fields and water as the sun climbed higher and the morning wore on. A mile or so after Northbrook Lock, Sally Ann entered what appeared to be a tunnel carved from a forest, and Marnie imagined herself in the Amazon.

  She was making solid progress, the weather was wonderful, the engine firing evenly. Leaving the next lock, Marnie permitted herself the luxury of a full-body stretch, rising on tip-toe with both arms spread wide, breathing deeply. In command of the situation, competent and capable, she knew what it meant to feel on top of the world.

  Gary felt jaded when he reported for duty on the waterbuses after another restless night. He had already set off along the towpath from Garrow when he remembered he had not shaved. When Gary arrived five minutes late for work, Eddy Waterman was not pleased.

  “For gawdsake, Gary, at least try to look cheerful.”

  “Right. I’ll tape the corners of my mouth to make a permanent smile if you like.”

  “Good idea. Tell you what, you can have a promotion. I’ll make you my number one driver if ever we get asked to do a canal funeral like in the olden days.”

  “What are you going on about, Eddy?”

  “There used to be funerals on the canals, right?”

  “Yeah. I been to one or two. Old boat people got taken to the cemetery on a boat for burying.”

  “Yeah. If we ever get asked to do one, you’ll be my first choice as driver. It’ll save me money. I won’t have to pay anyone as mourner to look sad on the boat. You can do the job.”

  Gary’s expression did not change. “Ha … ha …” he intoned slowly.

  “That’s the spirit! Now get that tape fitted on your mouth and start boarding the passengers. It’s going to be another wonderful day.”

  Wonderful is not the word, Gary thought, but he turned on his smile. He made a big effort not to appear miserable as he worked the waterbus between Little Venice and Camden Lock. He attempted to set his worries aside: Gravel, the stiff in the crate, Sheena, Old Peter, the dead woman at Mile End, the police. At any other time this would be a bumper year, with steady work and cash in hand. He could at least try to look cheerful. And yet …

  In the middle of the afternoon he had to wait to let a boat come through Maida Hill tunnel. He brought the waterbus over to the bank by Sally Ann’s vacant mooring and tried not to think about Marnie and all his other troubles.

  The oncoming boat nosed out of the tunnel and turned off its headlamp. He saw the familiar grey-gree
n boat emerging into daylight and knew that at the tiller he would see none other than Old Peter.

  Marnie’s heart skipped a beat; she thought she had heard the engine do the same. She peered over the stern at the exhaust pipe, her head cocked on one side. No. Both cylinders were running evenly with no trace of smoke. She told herself she was becoming paranoid or neurotic. What was the difference? She would look them up when – if – she eventually reached Oxford, capital of the English language.

  The locks had become less deep on the approach to Oxford, so that progress was marginally quicker as she drew nearer to the city. Marnie was beginning to relax and grow more confident of reaching her destination.

  They reached the last lock before Oxford Boaters, and Marnie was relieved to find the chamber full. She cruised up to the gates, pushed them open with the nose button and slipped in. Only the rasping sound from a garden machine whining in the distance spoilt the evening air. She watched the boat descend to the lower level, wishing the noise would stop and bring peace to the scene. To her surprise and gratitude it did. All was calm. When the lock had emptied Marnie opened the lower gate, vaguely sensing that something was different. She climbed the ladder down onto the gunwale and realised that the garden machine was not the only engine to have stopped. Sally Ann was silent too.

  After several attempts to fire the engine, the starter battery was weakening. Marnie turned the selector switch to use both batteries together to boost her efforts, but a long blast failed to produce results.

  She grabbed the pole from the roof and pushed against the gates behind her. Sally Ann eased forward, her nose clearing the lower gateway. Marnie hopped along the gunwale, picked up the long rope attached to the bow ring and jumped ashore. She heaved on the rope and fourteen tonnes of boat slid slowly out from the chamber.

  It was early Sunday evening. No point trying to contact Oxford Boaters; the yard would be closed. Marnie felt frustrated at failing when so close to her goal. The yard was barely half a mile away. Looking at the long mooring rope in her hands, a plan began to take shape.