by Leo McNeir
“Mm …” Anthony began. “We can’t get breathalysed and lose our licences for being over the limit in charge of a boat, can we?”
“If we could, there’d be no-one left on the canals,” said Marnie.
*
Marnie was embarrassed that the two actors, whom she regarded as her guests in Little Venice, insisted on paying for lunch. They were charming but adamant and she had only acquiesced by making them agree to accept hospitality from her at some future date. This they promised to do, possibly while on a journey up the Grand Union past Knightly St John.
She hoped they would not find Sally Ann too modest compared with their own boat and recalled reading a magazine article about their boating exploits a few years before. It gave the impression that Thespia was the top of the range from one of the best boat-builders in the country. They climbed aboard and the visitors admired Sally’s classic if dated lines and praised even more the interior with its Liberty curtains, safari-style furnishings and oriental rugs.
There was still plenty of daylight but the air had a winter chill and Marnie equipped her guests with extra scarves and woolly hats for the trip. They grouped themselves together on the stern deck as they moved off from the bank and headed into Maida Hill Tunnel while the water heated in the galley for a reviving coffee. Soon they were passing through Regent’s Park, chatting merrily while the condensation of their breath mingled with the steam from the mugs. Marnie offered the tiller to the actors and was surprised when Priscilla took the helm. Anthony explained that on Thespia his wife was always principal steerer, while he always handled the locks. She had a weakness in the back and they did not want to risk injury. Marnie thought of Anne at the helm while she dealt with the locks on the way down. She was sorry that Anne could not be with them and would ring later to see how she was. It would have been such a thrill for her to be travelling with the famous actors. She hoped there would be other times.
Leaving the zoo behind them, Priscilla slowed down for the approach to the tight left-hand corner at Cumberland Basin where the tall red pagoda restaurant towered up from the water among the trees on the bank. She had to bring Sally Ann to a halt as another boat nosed out from the bridge hole to turn towards them.
“Have you eaten at the pagoda?” Anthony asked Marnie. “I expect you’re on first name terms with the owner here as well.”
“Once or twice. It’s very good, but I don’t know the owner.”
“Would it be first name or last name terms in Chinese, if you know someone well?” said Priscilla. “I’m not sure which way round their names go.”
Marnie laughed. Meanwhile, the oncoming boat had straightened up and was advancing slowly to pass them. Instead of gathering speed, the steerer kept at dead slow and pointed at the group on Sally’s deck as he drew nearer.
“Now there’s a famous face!” he called out. “Good to see you. Saw you on TV.”
“Ah,” Anthony muttered quietly through his scarf. “Sorry about this, Marnie. Hazard of the profession. Happens all the time. One gets used to it.”
“Of course.” Marnie stood back.
The steerer of the other boat leaned over as he came alongside. “It is Marnie, isn’t it? You donated all those drawings to the museum. Wonderful gesture. Very generous.”
“Oh yes, hallo.” Marnie stepped nearer to the side of the boat. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve …”
“’Course not, but everyone knows you. Are you recovering?” The boats were now pulling clear of each other.
Marnie raised a thumb. “Much better, thanks. Bye!” The man turned to pay attention to steering his boat and glanced quickly over his shoulder for a final wave.
“You didn’t know him?” said Anthony.
Marnie shrugged. “Complete stranger.”
“The price of fame,” said Priscilla, adjusting her woolly hat, lining Sally up for the blind corner.
Marnie walked along the gunwale to get a better view through the bridge hole. She signalled back to Priscilla that the way was clear and returned to the stern deck. Priscilla made a smooth turn and glanced at Marnie who was laughing gently to herself.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“I was wondering why the man on the boat didn’t recognise you two, until I looked at you. He’d have to be a nose-fetishist to know who you were. There’s not much else of you visible.” The actors looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“She’s got a point,” said Anthony.
“So have you,” said Priscilla touching the end of his nose.
At that moment, the great Shakespearean actor, who had received prizes for his King Lear and his Othello, had won Emmy awards for his Uncle Vanya and his one-man show, Rembrandt, and was tipped for a knighthood, began to sing. He had a strong baritone voice, rich and melodious, and hearing him, the two other members of the crew joined in to create a rousing three-part harmony. Sally Ann cruised along the canal between the towpath and the gardens of fine Regency houses, while the strains of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer lit up the wintry afternoon.
*
Sally Ann hove to in the middle of the channel where the canal widened at the entrance to the Camden locks, and the crew scanned the area for a sight of Marcus or Thespia like pirates reaching the shores of a desert island. The main difference was that this particular spot was far from deserted, with the bustling market on the towpath side and the usual heavy traffic crossing the canal on the road bridge ahead of them. Dusk was coming on and the lights from the stalls to one side and double-decker buses crawling over the bridge reflected jauntily across the water.
“I can see something on the far side of the lock,” said Marnie, “but I can’t make out what it is.” She climbed onto the roof for a better view down to the lower level. “What colour is Thespia?”
“She’s dark green with red and yellow markings, seventy footer,” said Anthony. Priscilla let Sally drift forward to improve Marnie’s range of vision.
Marnie shook her head. “No. It’s Mary Rose, one of the trip boats. I can’t see any others.” She slipped back onto the deck. “What time did you expect him to get here?”
“Hard to say,” said Anthony.
Priscilla looked at her watch. “I thought he’d be here by now. It’s not as if you can get lost on the canal.”
“Shall we tie up and wait over there by the market? I could make some more coffee, or tea if you’d prefer.” Anthony and Priscilla exchanged glances. “It’s no problem,” Marnie went on.
“Well, that’s very good of you, Marnie, but if we stay much longer, there’s the risk of missing the carols. It’s not fair for you to suffer on our account. You’ve travelled a long way to be there.”
“I agree,” said Anthony. “Look, let me make a suggestion. You drop us off here and head back to Little Venice. That’ll give you plenty of time to line Sally Ann up with the other boats in the pool. We’ll follow as soon as Marcus arrives and we’ll see you there.”
“Tell them to save us a mince pie,” said Priscilla.
Marnie frowned. “Are you sure? I don’t like to leave you out in the cold, and it’s getting dark.”
“There’s a café by the bridge overlooking the canal,” said Anthony. “We can ensconce ourselves by the window and warm up. We’ll be fine.”
*
On the way back, at the approach to the bridge at Cumberland Basin, Marnie strained to detect any sign of a boat coming the other way round the blind corner. Sally Ann’s headlamp threw its beam forward, a narrow funnel of light that seemed to make everything outside its range even darker by contrast. She wished she had turned on some of the cabin lights to brighten the surrounding area, but it was too late now to leave the tiller even for a few seconds. As she eased Sally’s prow into the bridge hole, reflections and shadows seemed to flicker all around her like the ghost train in a fairground. To improve steerage Marnie pressed on the throttle and pulled the tiller over to take the bend in a smooth arc, the headlamp scanning the boats moored be
side the bank ahead of her.
Once into Regent’s Park, there were lamps casting pools of light along the towpath, now deserted. At sunset the gates giving access from the surrounding streets were locked and Marnie was aware that her only company, albeit unseen, was the animals and birds in the zoo. She pulled up the collar of her jacket to keep out the cold and hunched her shoulders, stamping her feet on the deck in rhythm with the thudding of the diesel below her.
Ahead, something was floating in the water, a small dark shape in a patch of reflected light. Marnie automatically adjusted the steering to avoid it. Even a plastic carrier bag could get tangled in the propeller and cause a nuisance. It floated safely past and Marnie wished she had reacted more quickly, so that she could have hooked the bag from the water. She checked that the pole and boathook were conveniently placed in front of her on the roof, ready for next time.
Next time came soon enough. A dark mass was floating under the Macclesfield Road bridge, the ‘blow-up bridge’, and Marnie pushed on the tiller to take her round the obstruction, slowing down and reaching for the boathook. Even as she did so, she knew that this was not a carrier bag.
“Oh god, not again,” she muttered, “not again.”
*
Minutes later, Marnie paused for a moment to get her breath and collect her thoughts, kneeling at the edge of the water, panting with the exertion of turning the body and trying to pull a dead man out onto the bank. She had to rationalise her efforts. It seemed somehow indecent to let him lie there face up in the water in the dark shadow of Sally Ann, but she had to get the boat tied up and secure so that she could concentrate on the task in hand. She gripped the two mooring ropes and heaved with all her weight to bring Sally to the canalside, where she made her fast against the metal edging. There was no-one in sight, no-one to help her. It was eerie and surreal, the man obediently floating where she had left him, the boat’s engine throbbing steadily at idle, a faint puff of grey smoke barely visible at the stern. Irrationally she wished she had turned the engine off so that the exhaust would not blow unhealthy fumes into the man’s face. Think, think, think. Get help. Yes.
Marnie leapt on board and dived into the cabin to grab the mobile at the end of the bed. She pressed three nines, standing on the deck, looking down at the body as if she wanted to be sure it was real.
“Emergency. Which service please?”
“Ambulance and police.”
It could only have been a few seconds, but Marnie could not cope with waiting. “Come on, come on!” It was ridiculous. She knew there was no hope, but she badly wanted someone else to be there, someone to share the responsibility, someone who knew what to do. “Come on, come on!” There was a click on the line and the operator's voice came back.
Marnie went through the routine of answering the questions posed by the calm, methodical voice of the woman at the other end of the line. She wanted to tell her how strange it all was, wanted to be re-assured, spoken to like a real person by another woman who would understand what she was feeling. But the voice ploughed on, asking for details of the location, Marnie’s name and phone number, telling her not to disturb anything until help came. After hanging up, Marnie thought of all the questions she should have asked. Was it all right to try to lift the body from the water? Was there anything she could do to try and revive him? How long would it be before anyone came? She took a deep breath and knew she had to get him out if she could.
Pulling at the man’s shoulders, it all came back to her. She thought of the time she had first met Ralph, the previous summer in Oxford, when he had tried to commit suicide by drowning one night in the canal. Then, he had regained consciousness as she tugged at him and allowed himself to be pulled onto the bank in the boatyard. This man was never going to do anything ever again. She pulled one arm onto the canalside and struggled to get a hand under his other shoulder to gain leverage, but it was hopeless.
Could he have committed suicide, she wondered? Might Ralph have ended up like this, lying up to his ears in the murky water of the canal, with his mouth slightly open? What if it was not suicide? What if the man had been murdered? Squatting at the water’s edge, Marnie glanced over her shoulder up and down the towpath. In the shadow of the bridge someone could be lurking even now, waiting to pounce on her. She shifted the weight on her feet, ready to spring up and run for it if anyone suddenly appeared. The engine made a reassuring sound, steady and reliable, the tang of the diesel faint in the evening air. But gradually Marnie became aware of another smell, something sweeter and richer. She lowered her face towards the man and sniffed. It was familiar. It was surely the smell of whisky. She sniffed again. Yes, no doubt about it. Perhaps he had had one or two drinks too many at an office party, slipped in the darkness, hit his head on a bridge column and toppled into the canal. Who could tell? He never would.
Minutes passed while she knelt with him in the cold and dark and waited, looking up and down the deserted pathway. Perhaps Anthony and Priscilla would come by on Thespia. Marnie strained to listen for the sounds of an ambulance or police car, but all she heard was the chugging of Sally’s engine. Even when she knew she would have to wait for the emergency people to arrive, she had not wanted to switch off the diesel, had not wanted to cut off her means of getting away.
The man’s arm rested on the bank as if he was having a break from an evening swim. Marnie looked down at his face in the dim light. His eyes were closed as if he was resting, and she began to notice him as a person. The face had fine features, even in death, and his hair seemed well cut. This was no tramp like the ones she had heard about, who roll into the water in a drunken stupor, to their final sleep. He was wearing a dark coat, blue or grey, with a suit and tie, the edge of a light-coloured scarf just visible where she had tugged at his lapels. She put a hand to his cheek and, feeling completely foolish, patted it, at first softly and then harder. If he came round, she thought she would probably fall in from shock. But he did not come round and she hung her head dejectedly, wondering if she could have saved his life if only she had come along a few minutes earlier.
Somewhere in the background, in the world outside, she heard a siren wailing.
6
Monday 19 December
“I believe you were involved in a murder enquiry just recently, Mrs Walker.”
“Yes, but on that occasion, I was … well, the murder victim.”
“Not often we get the chance to have a chat with the victim of a murder, Mrs Walker.”
“Enjoy it while you can, Inspector. Actually, I thought this was rather more significant than just a chat.”
“Quite so. A serious business. We shall be asking you for a statement, of course, but first I’d like you to describe the events of last evening. I’m going to record this interview if you don’t mind. We’ll use it as the basis for your statement.”
Marnie nodded. “I don’t really have anything to add to what I told your colleagues last night.”
“That’s all right. Sometimes there are things you remember after a night’s sleep that you might’ve left out first time. Shock can have that effect on people.”
At that moment a young police constable came into the room and placed cups of coffee in front of them on the table. It was a bare room and the aroma of the coffee did little to make it cosy. There was just a plain table end-on against a wall, with a tape-recorder, a few chairs, no pictures, no window, no carpet. The walls were painted grey-green. After serving the coffee, the constable went over to stand by the door. The inspector pressed the button to start the machine and a loud buzzer sounded for several seconds. The inspector explained who they were and what they were doing while Marnie cautiously took a sip of coffee. At least it was hot.
“Thank you for offering to come to the station this morning, Mrs Walker. It was good of you.”
“I thought it would be easier than trying to do it on my boat. There’s more space here.” She could have added that she did not want Sally Ann touched – contaminated – by a polic
e enquiry into a suspicious death. Memories of the murder investigation in Knightly St John the previous year were still fresh. Once was enough.
“Now, in your own words, please, would you describe the events yesterday evening from the time you left your mooring in Little Venice.”
Marnie began her narrative, keeping it succinct and to the point. There was nothing about feelings, nothing but the facts. When she reached the end, she sat back in her chair and drank the last of the coffee. The inspector did not turn off the recorder but sat in silence for a few seconds.
“That was most helpful, Mrs Walker. I wish all the people we recorded were as concise. Turning that into a statement will be easy. Are you happy that there’s nothing you missed out? You saw no-one else when you passed that way earlier?”
“No. Just the man on the boat we passed. And the towpath was deserted.”
“And there’s nothing you want to add?”
Marnie shook her head. “No, I think that’s everything.”
“You didn’t recognise the man in the water?”
“Recognise him? Of course not.”
“Why of course not?”
“Well, if I had recognised him I would’ve told you.”
“So you’d never met him before?”
“I’d never met him before.”
The inspector stood up and walked a few paces with his hands in his pockets. “I’d like you to think very carefully about this, Mrs Walker. How long did you wait with the body until the ambulance and police officers arrived?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Probably not many minutes, but it seemed quite a long time.”
“Quite a long time. And you were close to him while you waited.”
“I was kneeling beside him at the edge of the towpath.”
“You could see his face?”
“Well, it was dark and he was partially in shadow, but I could see him reasonably well, I suppose.”
“If it had been someone you knew, you’re confident you would have recognised him at that distance in that light?”
