Death in Little Venice

by Leo McNeir

  “Thank you, Ralph. I’m sure I don’t, but it’s reassuring to know you don’t think it’s a complete disaster.”

  “The only problem,” Ralph began, “is what Anne with an ‘e’ will think of you copying her style. The only difference I can see is that she’s fair and you’re dark.”

  “And I’m twice her age,” said Marnie.

  Their conversation was disturbed by the bustling arrival of Linda, Michael Blissett’s PA, a stocky woman in her forties, who gave the impression of battling her way through a whirlwind, with a folder under one arm and a security pass hung round her neck on a chain. She exuded good-natured willingness to take on any challenge and overpower it by force of will-power, all of this laced with a heavy dose of long-suffering world-weariness. Clearing a path through the throng, she maintained a steady flow of comments on the amount of work she had to complete before the Christmas recess, the unreasonableness of constituents wanting their problems solved in time for them to enjoy the festivities, and the iniquities of the Whip’s Office, throwing in a blast at the Serjeant at Arms for good measure. Reaching the lift, she managed to side-step a group of MPs, including a junior minister from the Foreign Office, and usher her guests in, deftly hitting the button and leaving the MPs stranded to contemplate the ‘Members Only’ sign as the doors closed.

  Marnie found the best course was simply to smile and nod at appropriate intervals, confident that Linda had scarcely even noticed her … and the accommodation in this place is ridiculous, something’s got to be done, well, you know how it is, Ralph … Ralph muttered encouraging comments under his breath and was obviously no stranger to Linda’s style. It occurred to Marnie that they must have been about the same age, mid-forties. They certainly had little outwardly in common. Ralph, tall and elegant in a long navy blue coat over a dark suit, had kept himself in good shape. His brown hair, flecked with grey at the temples, contrasted with Linda’s mousy wisps, struggling against all odds to hang on to some sort of style.

  They exited the lift and turned right past a security desk like a Victorian box pew set in between two columns. One of the policemen on duty nodded at Linda who raised a hand while wafting by, continuing her commentary all the while … and you wouldn’t believe what the Home Office wrote to two of our constituents … it’s not as if they’d just arrived … I mean, they were thrown out by Idi Amin … their kids were born here … She led Ralph and Marnie along an ornate panelled corridor, thickly carpeted, with committee room doors on one side, each surmounted by a title written in ornate gilt letters with coloured edging … well, all we can do is go and see the minister, but it all takes time to organise, and guess who that falls on …

  Marnie was fascinated to be there. Like most people she was used to seeing the Houses of Parliament on television, in films, on adverts, even on sauce bottles in the supermarket, but to be inside, actually walking the real corridors of power, struck her as a privileged experience. Linda stopped the banter as they reached the end of the corridor and she pushed open a door, went up a short flight of steps, crossed a lobby, mounted more steps and pushed open another glazed door. They followed in her wake past a photocopier and into another corridor, a complete contrast with the first. This had plain primrose walls with plain white doors at intervals every few paces. Ralph let Marnie go in front of him and she glanced back at two men standing by the copying machine. One of them raised his pipe and smiled at Ralph.

  “Tony Benn?” Marnie whispered over her shoulder. Ralph nodded. “Photocopying?” she mouthed.

  “It happens.”

  Marnie noticed that some of the doors bore a sign: This door to be kept locked at all times. She pointed at one of them. Ralph whispered: “Security. Some MPs are dealing with very sensitive subjects and don't want anyone entering their rooms when they aren't around. You'll see Michael has a sign like that. He was on a committee dealing with the Iraq super-gun affair.”

  “This is our rabbit hutch along here,” said Linda. “We’re luckier than some. At least we have an office. Some MPs have a desk in a corridor downstairs.” Corridors of power, Marnie thought.

  She could picture already the office that awaited them and prepared herself for piles of papers and files tilting at crazy angles on every flat surface, books stacked at random and the overspill from the waste basket cascading onto the floor. The reality was a pleasant surprise as Linda backed through a door and held it open for the visitors. The office was just big enough for two people, each with their own desk and paraphernalia. There were two filing cabinets, two low armchairs, a tall glass-fronted bookcase and shelves high up on the walls. What pleased Marnie most was the atmosphere. It came from the lighting: two desk lamps, each with a green glass shade and two modern reading lamps. Above the desk on the opposite wall was a tall wide window looking out over a rooftop towards Westminster Abbey, its stained glass windows bright in the clear dark winter air. The office felt cosy but with a sense of purpose.

  Seated at the desk below the window, with his back to them, was Michael Blissett MP, speaking quietly into the phone. A veteran backbencher, sometime minister in the Wilson and Callaghan governments, he was a familiar figure to many, with a thick crop of grey hair and a beard to match. Now he was an elder statesman in the party, no longer destined for high office if they were returned to power, but respected for his honest and frank views and liked by MPs on both sides of the House. Once a left-wing firebrand, he had settled into the role of conscience of the party and keeper of its values.

  Linda took their coats and hung them up, gesturing towards the armchairs. Ralph remained standing and smiled at Marnie. Their host was obviously bringing his conversation to a close.

  “Well, those are my views,” he was saying. “As long as you quote me accurately I don’t mind you using that in the programme … No, I don’t see how I can fit in an interview, not today, no … too much going on … All right Barry, good, good, glad I could help … See you.” Putting down the receiver, he immediately stood up, turned and held out a hand. “Nice to see you, Ralph.”

  “Hallo, Mike. It’s good to see you. May I introduce Marnie, Marnie Walker.” He turned to Marnie. “Michael Blissett, an old friend from way back.”

  “I don’t like to think how far back!” exclaimed the MP. Marnie shook hands as Michael Blissett looked her in the eyes with a broad smile. She had the slightly uncomfortable feeling of being in the presence of a man whose professional skills included greeting people and winning them over.

  “Will you want coffee before going down?” said Linda.

  “Yes! Let’s have some coffee. You’d like coffee, wouldn’t you Marnie? Is it all right if I call you Marnie? What about you, Ralph?”

  “Fine, if we have time.”

  Linda picked up a tray and pulled open the door. “I’ll wash these while the kettle boils. Love that hairstyle, Marnie. The loo’s down the corridor on the right.” The statements were made in one breath without a pause and the sequence threw Marnie momentarily.

  “Oh … er, yes, thank you.”

  “Before you go Linda,” said Michael. “What did you do with that betting slip?”

  “Under the lamp on your desk.” She disappeared and the room became calm.

  “Sit yourselves down. Make yourselves at home.” The voice was gruff but kindly, with a northern warmth to it. Marnie was still thinking about the betting slip and wondered if the reports of MPs leading dubious lives were true after all. Michael reached over and handed Marnie a slip of buff-coloured paper. “Message for you from someone called Anne with an ‘e’. She said that would do, so that’s what I wrote.” Marnie took the note. “My handwriting’s not very legible at the best of times. She said would you ring her when you get a moment. It’s quite urgent, apparently. Quite a live wire, that one, I’d say.”

  “A live wire?” said Marnie cautiously. “She gave you that impression?”

  “Well, I asked her if she had any other message for you and she said to tell you not to fall over the speaker�
�s chair during the party!”

  “That’s Anne with an ‘e’,” said Marnie with a sigh. “Actually, where is the party going to be?”

  “In the Jubilee Room,” said Michael. “It’s an annexe off Westminster Hall.”

  Marnie reached in the bag for her mobile but suddenly remembered the restriction. “Okay. I’ll call her later.”

  “No, no, ring her from here,” said Michael. “It’s quite all right if it’s urgent. Do you want to talk to her in private?”

  “Not at all. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Use Linda’s phone, then. Press nine for a line.”

  While Marnie rang her office, Michael and Ralph chatted quietly. She had been right. Anne needed to confirm a date with their major client, Willards’ Brewery in Leicester. Marnie wrote it in her note-book and added two more items before hanging up.

  “Thanks very much, Mr Blissett.”

  “Michael, and it’s a pleasure. I hope everything’s fine.” At that moment the door swung open and Linda returned with a tray of crockery. Michael looked pointedly at Marnie’s note-book. “I see you have your list of jobs to do like I get mine. She must be a younger version of Linda, your Anne with an ‘e’.”

  “Much younger,” said Marnie. Linda stiffened as she put the tray down. “Anne is only sixteen, working with me for a while before going to college.” She smiled amiably at Linda.

  “Why is she Anne with an ‘e’?” said Michael.

  “When I met her last year I was travelling on my boat, Sally Ann, and she told me her name was also Anne, but spelt differently. Somehow it’s stuck ever since.”

  “Well, she keeps you in line, like Linda does me.”

  “Never fails.”

  “Great. Well let’s have that coffee.” He began pouring from the pot. “Have you been to the Commons before, Marnie?”

  “First visit. It’s interesting to walk down the corridors of power that we hear about.”

  “Oh, there’s no power here,” said Michael with a twinkle in his eye. “Is there, Ralph? Ralph’s books remind us of that all the time.”

  “Michael will tell you,” said Ralph, “that an MP, apart from those who are ministers, has no real power, except a certain nuisance value to the government of the day, especially if it’s their own party in power.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Michael. “That’s quite true. When I was a minister in the sixties and seventies the most difficult problems always came from our side.”

  “Not from the opposition?” said Marnie.

  “Oh, they can be a pain in the bum as well, but that’s business, nothing personal.”

  “I suppose the Tories will be at the Christmas party,” said Marnie mischievously.

  “Of course. It’s a cross-party party, so to say. You’ll be surprised who’ll be there tonight, just you wait and see. You don’t take sugar, do you Ralph?”

  *

  “It’s called rubber necking,” said Ralph quietly, handing Marnie a spritzer. There was already a good turnout and groups of people were arriving by the minute, hanging coats up in the vestibule and walking over to the table set out with drinks, manned by staff from the MPs’ offices. As soon as they had entered the room, Michael had been collared by a member of the shadow cabinet and they had stood to one side for a few moments, heads close together, locked in intense conversation.

  “What is?” said Marnie.

  “What you’re trying hard not to do: staring round to see how many well-known people you can see.”

  “Was it that obvious? I was trying to be discreet. It’s not easy when there are so many famous faces.”

  “Haven’t you noticed people looking at you, trying to place you, too?” said Ralph.

  “Not really. No reason why they should. I’m not famous.”

  “You don’t need to be famous for people to be looking at you, especially men, especially MPs.”

  “Are MPs any different from everybody else?” said Marnie, sipping the spritzer.

  “I think they are,” said Ralph.

  “How different?”

  Ralph looked round the room, as if searching for inspiration or evidence. “It’s the kind of lives they lead.”

  “I take it you don’t think the power goes to their head,” said Marnie, “if you don’t think MPs have any real power.”

  “Maybe not, but power is part of it. Many of them are far from home, often living alone in a small flat, treated like VIPs …”

  “They are VIPs,” Marnie interrupted, “compared with most people.”

  “Yes, and many expect to be treated like it.”

  “I thought you knew a lot of them as friends. You make it sound as if you didn’t like them.”

  “That wouldn’t be true,” said Ralph. “I’ve known some of them for years and years, on all sides of the House. I’m just trying to explain how it is for them. A lot of them are prima donnas. People boost their egos, flatter them. Despite that, sometimes they feel insecure because of all the pressure. They work late nights, there are temptations. It’s understandable.”

  While they stood talking, the room was filling and people squeezed past them, many nodding at Ralph and glancing appraisingly at Marnie. The level of sound was rising and from one corner came the raucous laugh of an MP who was often on television and radio. Looking round, Marnie discovered she was standing next to a group comprising the Heritage Secretary, the Director of the Royal Opera and the Head of Channel Four Television, the latter narrating a story that had the other two smiling.

  “I could get used to this,” said Marnie.

  “You could even meet some potential clients,” said Ralph.

  “Well, actually …” Before she could finish the sentence, Michael Blissett joined them.

  “Sorry about that. Jack’s been trying to talk to me all day. I didn’t mean to abandon you as soon as we arrived. It’s always like that here, Marnie. Always someone wanting to have a quiet word.”

  “Everyone has problems to sort out,” said Marnie agreeably.

  “Yes, most of ours are because we’ve been in opposition too long. Ralph could give you a two-hour lecture about that.”

  “At least,” said Ralph.

  “That’s quite a burden,” said Marnie. “Being in opposition all that time, I mean.”

  “Of course, but it’s just as bad for the Tories,” said Michael. Marnie raised an eye-brow. He went on. “Their problems are because they’ve been in government too long.”

  “I can manage three hours on that,” said Ralph. “On a good day.”

  Marnie had become aware that all the time they were standing in conversation, Michael was discreetly watching the movements of the other guests, glancing away briefly every few seconds. Suddenly, he reached over and took Marnie by the arm.

  “Do you know Peter Menchip?”

  “I’ve seen him on Newsnight, I think. Wasn’t he an environmental campaigner?”

  “That’s right,” said Michael. “Still is. And he’d like to meet you.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “Something to do with canals. He’s a member of our Waterways Policy Group. Would you like to say hallo?”

  “If you think so,” said Marnie.

  They picked their way through the crush, trying not to spill drinks down future ministers and leading figures in the arts world. Marnie thought this must be the first time the high point of an evening was just crossing a crowded room, but then it was not every day you rubbed shoulders, literally, with the Great and the Good, people you only normally saw on television, and it was not every day that the Leader of the Opposition, tipped to be the next Prime Minister, moved over with a friendly smile to let you squeeze past. She turned to make a comment to Ralph, only to find that the Leader of the Opposition was talking quietly into Ralph’s ear, one hand on his shoulder. Ralph smiled and made his reply before the two men nodded and Ralph continued on his way. When he caught up with Marnie, she muttered: “It’s like walking through Who’s Who.”
/>   “Then be careful who you tread on,” he replied, steering her round the Deputy Prime Minister. “Are you enjoying this?”

  “It’s probably naff to admit it, but I’m quite thrilled.”

  “I think you might like the next part even more,” said Ralph. Marnie gave him a quizzical look and he indicated with a nod the group of people they were approaching. There were three of them, all laughing together and, as they turned at Michael Blissett’s approach, Marnie recognised Peter Menchip MP, long time campaigner for the planet, and his guests. They were two of the most famous faces in the land, Priscilla Barnes and Anthony James, each in their different fields established as leading actors on stage, television and radio. Michael once again took hold of Marnie’s arm and introduced her and Ralph. For one second, Marnie had the awful feeling that Michael had made a mistake, that it was someone else that the MP had wanted to meet and that they would stand in embarrassed silence, desperate to find something relevant to say. But as they shook hands, she was drawn immediately into the conversation.

  “Marnie,” said Peter Menchip, “good to meet you. Is it okay if I call you Marnie? I expect you already know Priscilla and Anthony.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” she said. The group made welcoming sounds.

  “You hadn’t met before?” said the MP.

  “We don’t normally mix in the same circles, I think,” said Marnie, wondering if he had in fact made a mistake.

  “Oh, but you do. You have a great deal in common.”

  Seeing her bewilderment, Anthony James leaned forward. “I think he’s referring to our mutual interest in narrowboats.”

  “Ah,” said Marnie. “Yes, I see.” She had no idea the two actors had such an interest and only dimly remembered that they were married to each other.

  “That’s it,” said Peter. “I’m on the Waterways Policy Group, so that gives us all an interest in common. I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since I saw you on television.”

  “That ought to be my line,” said Marnie. She had only once been on television, the previous year when she had officially opened a new gallery at the National Canal Museum. The gallery housed a special collection of the lost drawings and papers of the great canal engineer, William Jessop, documents that had been bequeathed to Marnie and that she had offered to the museum for permanent exhibition. It had been the end of a mystery lasting two hundred years and for a short time Marnie had become a national celebrity.