Death in Little Venice

by Leo McNeir

  *

  It started snowing again as the dusk came down in the late afternoon. Marnie waited till Anne was out taking the post up to the village before phoning Anne’s parents. They talked for several minutes and when she replaced the receiver, Marnie was smiling. It was the first time she had felt cheerful since coffee. The thought that Anne might actually go back to her parents to live with them while she studied for the next two years had brought on a feeling of gloom. That waif-like creature had become a major part of her life and she could not imagine being without her.

  With a flurry of chill air and the odd snowflake, Anne came into the office barn followed by Ralph. They stamped their feet on the doormat. “If it gets any worse, I’ll be putting in for skis or a team of huskies,” Anne said, hanging her jacket on the hook. Ralph put a bundle of files on the photocopier and undid his coat.

  “Anne said Malcolm Grant rang.”

  “That’s right. He suggested a meeting in London to talk about his flat. I said I’d see him next week.”

  “Are you both going?”

  “No. Just me. I’ll stay at Beth and Paul’s for a few days.”

  “I’ve got some reading to do, preparation for next year,” said Anne. “A levels. I’ll have to find a college for September.”

  “I’ll see if I can get you a Fellowship at All Saints,” said Ralph.

  Anne stuck out her tongue and smiled at him. “It’s no good. They don’t do my subjects and I can’t do an Art Foundation course there.”

  “All Saints turned down by a sixteen year-old. There’ll be riots in Oxford when the word gets round!” He became serious again. “So you’ll be seeing Grant alone, Marnie? Where are you meeting?”

  Marnie frowned. “He suggested that café in Little Venice, the one over the entrance to Maida Hill tunnel. You don’t think it could be difficult, do you?”

  Ralph sighed. “I suppose not. Will you be going back to his place?”

  “We didn’t talk about it. It’s just an exploratory chat, he said.”

  “Good.” Ralph seemed pleased that their meeting would be in a public place, but Marnie was not so sure. She had never had a meeting with a client away from the building to be discussed. She kept the thought to herself.

  *

  Saturday 31 December

  It was breakfast time on Saturday. The last day of the year. “I’ve got my things packed,” said Anne. “Before we go, do you think I’ve got time to take down the Christmas decorations? It’ll seem like an anti-climax to find them still up when we get back.”

  “Sure. Good idea. I’ll help you,” said Marnie.

  “Or you could just leave them up for next year,” suggested Ralph, dunking a croissant. “Christmas cards will be back in the shops by February.”

  Anne laughed. “Next to the Easter eggs.”

  “Probably.”

  “Actually, Ralph, I think it all comes down to economics.”

  Ralph, the economist, professor of economics at a world famous college, author and adviser to governments on economic affairs, looked sceptical. “Not commerce, perhaps?” he ventured.

  “No, economics. You know you say how commercial it all is, and how lots of people can’t afford everything?”

  “Ye-e-s.” He sounded suspicious.

  “And there are Christmas things in the shops soon after the summer holidays.”

  “Give or take a day or two, yes.”

  “Well, I think it helps a lot of people.”

  “Helps them,” he repeated. “Go on.”

  “I know an old lady in our street who buys something for Christmas every week when the things come into the shops. It spreads the load, makes it easier for her to manage on her pension. If the Christmas things came out later, say in late November, she wouldn’t be able to afford it all at once.” Anne shrugged. “Economics.”

  Ralph thought of the folders of briefing notes on his desk and laughed softly. “Lessons on economics from a sixteen year-old. For goodness’ sake, don’t tell the President!”

  *

  “Anne, I want to talk to you.” Marnie swung the Rover out from the farm track after breakfast and headed towards the high street and beyond that the main road. She was taking Anne to the bus station for her short visit home. “I’ve got a proposition for you to consider.”

  “Uh-huh.” Anne sat still and waited.

  “I hope you’ll like it,” Marnie added, not wanting to cause anxiety. “It’s about going to college.”

  “You can’t keep me, Marnie. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Just listen. I’m the boss. I give the orders.”

  “I’ll write them out for you on a list,” said Anne.

  “Ha, ha, smartarse,” Marnie muttered as she pulled out onto the dual carriageway. “Okay. This is what I propose. You find a college near here that has good A level courses. You stay at Glebe Farm and work for me when you can, mainly vacations and perhaps in your spare time. I keep you in return for that. Tell me it isn’t fair.”

  “It isn’t –”

  “Not literally!” Marnie interrupted. “You’re supposed to agree with me. It is fair. And you don’t need to find a holiday job filling shelves in Tesco’s or serving in a Little Chef. Plus you continue to get experience on the job. What do you say?”

  “I’ll need to talk it over with mum and dad.”

  “I’ve sort of done that already.” Marnie was glad to be able to spring a surprise on her friend.

  “I guessed you had,” said Anne. “So they’ve agreed?”

  “If you accept the idea, yes. What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Marnie glanced at her friend and saw the smile spreading across Anne’s face. “I think it’s great. I think everything is going to be just perfect.”

  *

  Marnie was back by late morning and found Ralph in the office reading faxes. “I think I owe you about a dozen rolls of fax paper,” he said.

  “Be my guest.” She walked over to her desk, spotted the red light glowing on the answerphone and pressed the button. There were two messages.

  “Hi Marnie! It’s only me.” Anne’s voice piped out of the machine. “Just wanted to thank you for a wonderful Christmas and for the super idea about next year. And don’t forget to give Ralph an extra kiss from me when you see him off at the airport. Lots of love. Bye!”

  “Why is it that the people who are most important in your life begin messages by saying ‘it’s only me’?”

  Ralph nodded his agreement. The answerphone peeped again.

  “This is DS Wallace from Lisson Grove police station with a message for Mrs Marnie Walker.” Marnie’s smile disappeared. “We’d like you to sign your statement as soon as possible, please, and there are one or two points we’d like you to clarify. Could you give me a ring to fix a day to come down?” He left a phone number and hung up.

  “But I’ve already done that,” said Marnie. “That message must have come in since I left this morning. Don’t these people talk to each other?”

  “Curious,” said Ralph. “Do you know this Wallace?”

  Marnie shrugged. “Don’t think so, unless he was at the station when I was there. It was a constable who came with Bruere to the boat, I think, a young one. Do you think it could just be a way of putting pressure on me?”

  “It does seem rather odd. I can’t say I know much about how the police work. Are you going to ring back?”

  Marnie looked at the phone. “No. I’m not playing games. They’re messing me about. Have you any more work to do with those faxes?”

  “No. They were just copies of papers for me to read.”

  “Good. How about a tootle on Sally Ann?”

  “Sandwich and a glass of wine for lunch while we travel?”

  “You’re on. Let’s go for it.”

  *

  It was the last sunshine of the year as Sally Ann cut through the icy water between the sleeping fields and Dolly curled up on the hatch, purring while Ralph stroked her with h
is free hand. The other was on the tiller. Marnie uncorked a bottle of Aussie red and poured two generous glasses. There were herons on the bank at almost regular intervals and voles scurrying about at the water’s edge.

  “What will the weather be like in Japan?”

  “Much the same as here,” said Ralph. “This’ll be my last dose of fresh air for a while, I expect. I don’t go out for walks in Tokyo. Too much traffic, too little time between meetings.” He took a bite of his sandwich, brie and black grape on granary bread, and mumbled his appreciation. Marnie sipped her wine and took over the tiller.

  “It’ll be nice to see Little Venice again. It’s always delightful. I don’t want this latest business to spoil it.”

  “No. You’ll have to be careful about that. When are you meeting Malcolm Grant?”

  “Monday morning when I go in from the airport.”

  “So, as soon as my back is turned, you’re off with another man.”

  “Just like a woman,” said Marnie, “totally unreliable. I’m sure Inspector Bruere would agree.”

  Ralph was frowning. “I don’t suppose you could arrange for someone to be with you when you see him?”

  “You’re not serious? You’re not really jealous, surely?”

  “Not in the least. I’m just a bit anxious about the whole situation. To tell you the truth, I don’t like going off like this and leaving you to handle things on your own. Last time I went away …”

  “That was different, Ralph. All I’m doing is having a cup of coffee and talking about redecorating a flat. I’m sure I can look after myself.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m getting neurotic. But do be careful. Just bear in mind that Grant is probably a suspect.”

  “That makes two of us,” said Marnie. “We have a lot in common. We should get on very well.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Do you really think Grant might have murdered his friend?”

  Ralph drank some wine and stared thoughtfully into the glass. “No. No, I don’t, not really.” He smiled at Marnie. “The meeting of the two suspects. You're right, you should make a good pair!”

  Marnie laughed. “Yes. Grant in scarlet-lined black cloak, complete with concealed dagger, me in Mata Hari-style fishnet tights.”

  “Did Mata Hari wear fishnet tights?” said Ralph.

  “No idea, but it seemed an appropriate image.” They clinked glasses and cuddled together for warmth as Sally Ann chugged along in the pale winter light.

  That evening they had supper on Thyrsis, a simple meal of pasta with smoked trout followed by cheese and dates, and they finished the red wine. Ralph produced a bottle of good cognac and they chatted over coffee about plans for the future to the accompaniment of tape of Concerti Grossi by Corelli.

  “New Year’s Eve,” said Ralph. “Shouldn’t we be out partying or throwing ourselves into the fountain in Trafalgar Square?”

  Marnie shuddered. “I’d much rather be here. I’ve never been one for all that forced jollity.” She sipped her brandy.

  “I like the way they celebrate in Germany,” said Ralph. “Everyone lets off fireworks on the stroke of midnight.”

  “I think I’ve got a packet of sparklers somewhere,” Marnie volunteered. “If that’s what turns you on.”

  “I don’t need sparklers. Marnie?”

  “Ye-e-s?”

  “Do you particularly want to stay up and see the new year in?”

  “Not desperately. I expect the new year will still be there in the morning. How about you?”

  “That’s my view exactly. Tell me something. What was that you were saying this afternoon … about fishnet tights?”

  *

  Monday 2 January

  It was two days later, the first Monday morning of the new year, when Marnie drove Ralph to Heathrow. The pips were sounding for the eight o’clock news on BBC Radio 4 as they turned off the motorway and took the road leading into the huge airport. They had had a surprisingly good journey and now had over an hour to spare before Ralph’s check-in time. At the end of the news bulletin came the item that brought their conversation to an abrupt halt.

  “ … The government has announced the date for the by-election caused by the death of the MP for London Riverside, Tim Edmonds. It will take place on Thursday, 26 January. A memorial service for Mr Edmonds will be held a week later in his home town, Chichester. An appreciation of his life and work will be given by his close friend and fellow Conservative MP, Malcolm Grant, whose elevation to the peerage was announced in the New Year Honours list. In world markets the pound has continued to hold its own in the face of growing problems in the economies of the Pacific rim …”

  “Do you want to listen to this, Ralph?”

  “No. I’ve heard it all before.” He smiled at Marnie. “Are you going to keep your hair short like that? It really does suit you.” She shrugged and seemed not to be interested in the question. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m just concentrating on the traffic signs, plus the fact that several taxis are trying to fit into my exhaust pipes at the same time, and a maniac in a white van thinks this is the qualifying session for the British Grand Prix. Apart from that, everything’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  “And you’re about to go to the other side of the world when I’ve just got used to having you around. That might have something to do with it.”

  “Oh …”

  “Sorry.” She gave him a quick smile and moved decisively into the lane for the short-term car park . “Didn’t mean to hang the guilt thing round your neck.”

  “It’s how I feel, too. Never mind. I’ll be back next week.”

  They did not speak about what was really on their mind, and even when they eventually kissed goodbye at passport control, where Marnie remembered to give Ralph an extra kiss from Anne, neither of them mentioned memorial services, peerages or a certain dead MP. The nearest they came to any reference to their concerns was Ralph’s last words before turning towards the departure lounge.

  “Try to stay out of trouble, at least until I get back.”

  11

  Monday 2 January 10.30 am

  Marnie could hardly believe her luck. She had made reasonably good time to London from Heathrow after leaving Ralph and, as she pulled into Little Venice, a car was slipping out of a parking space immediately ahead of her, and not just any slot, one of the newly designated row of long-stay spaces. Making a new year's resolution to think kind thoughts about Westminster City Council, she eased the Rover backwards to the kerb.

  It was only a short walk to Warwick Avenue tube station, and Malcolm Grant came up the steps on the other side of the street within a minute of her arrival. Marnie stepped off the kerb and walked briskly towards him. He was wearing a camel hair coat over a dark suit and sported a rather smart trilby. Marnie liked hats on men, especially when they wore them with a sense of style like Malcolm Grant. He recognised her at once and smiled.

  “I hope I haven't kept you waiting,” he said. Marnie offered her hand. “Not at all. Is the café down the road okay for you?”

  “It's fine. You lead the way. This isn't really my neck of the woods.”

  They set off towards the pool of Little Venice, walking briskly in the chilly air.

  “I thought you lived near here.”

  “Other side of the park. I hardly know this part at all. In fact, I wasn't sure I was going to get here on time. I thought the tube'd be quicker. I came up from the House. I've got things to sort out in the office. Clearing my desk, you know.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I should congratulate you on your peerage.”

  He made a sound like a grunt and muttered something. Marnie only caught the words, ‘put out to grass’.

  “Has it happened yet? I mean, do I call you Lord Grant, or does that have to wait till you've been elevated or whatever happens?”

  He shrugged. “I don't want to be stuffy about it. Do call me Malcolm, unless of course you like to keep relations w
ith clients on a more formal basis.”

  “No, that’s fine, and please call me Marnie.”

  Still walking, he reached over to shake her hand. “That’s agreed then. Marnie it is. Did you come on the tube?”

  “No, not actually. In fact, I feel rather guilty about it, but I drove in. I invariably do. I'm afraid I've always used the car for business and it's become a habit.”

  “No reason to feel guilty about it. You have to do what's right for you. That's what the roads are for. It's called freedom of choice. Mind you, I'd have thought parking round here could be a nightmare. I wouldn't want you to get a ticket.”

  “Tickets!” said Marnie. “I could paper the walls with them.”

  Grant turned and smiled at her. “I was rather hoping for something a little more conventional for the flat. So where did you manage to park?”

  Marnie pointed across the road. “Over there. Mine's the dark blue one.”

  He stopped for a few seconds as if focusing on it. “That sporty-looking Rover? Nice to see someone buying a British car.”

  They turned the corner and Marnie automatically crossed over to take the pavement that ran alongside the canal towpath. Could he really be a suspect in a murder investigation? she wondered.

  “And is one of these boats yours?” They looked at the row of colourful craft lining the canal banks on the other side of the railings. Marnie knew them all and their owners and regarded them as friends.

  “No. When I moved to Northamptonshire, I took her up with me.”

  Grant's eyes twinkled again. “Or the other way round, perhaps?”

  Marnie laughed. “Yes. I suppose so.” As they walked along in conversation, she found herself impressed by his curiosity about everything and the energy he exuded. Could we both be suspects in a murder investigation? she wondered. It occurred to her that he would probably be very formidable in debate in the Commons. He would make them sit up and take notice in the Lords, all right. He was asking technical questions about the different types of narrowboats when they arrived at the café perched over the canal at the entrance to Maida Hill tunnel.