by Leo McNeir
Inside, two waitresses were chatting with another young woman behind the bar. One of them broke away to show them to a table on the balcony overlooking the water. She gave them each a menu.
“This is delightful, Marnie. Thank you for suggesting it.” Grant's voice was warm and cultured, but not plummy. A trip boat slid quietly out of the tunnel immediately beneath where they sat, brightly painted in red and yellow and green, with a good number of passengers leaning out from under the awning even at this time of year, and they peered down to look as it emerged into the open and chugged steadily along the canal, heading towards the pool, while the guide's commentary drifted faintly up to them from the loudspeaker.
“So you've never been here before?” Curiously, Marnie found this surprising.
“No, never. Perhaps I've spent too much time in London's other most exclusive club.”
“The House of Commons,” said Marnie.
“Exactly.” He looked over her shoulder. “Are you ready to order?”
Marnie became aware of the waitress standing behind her. “Just coffee for me, I think.”
Grant nodded, looked up at the waitress and asked her a question in rapid, and what sounded to Marnie like very fluent, Spanish. The effect on the waitress was astonishing. She smiled broadly, a warm, full smile in a wide mouth showing perfect white teeth. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, and for a few moments they talked animatedly together. Then, she turned and walked away.
“They have a speciality here, apparently, almond pastries made by their chef from an old Spanish recipe, possibly from Majorca. I've taken the liberty of ordering us one each, since she recommended them so highly. I hope you don't mind.”
“Fine,” said Marnie. “So she's Spanish, then?”
“Argentinean, actually, I think.”
“Oh, is that what she was saying?”
“No. It was her accent.”
“Her accent?”
“Yes, I think so. It's quite distinctive. Now, where were we? Oh yes, you were telling me about the difference between a barge and a narrowboat. Do go on.”
Marnie was drawn further into a description of boats in general and Sally Ann in particular, of trads, semi-trads, tugs and Joshers. Grant's questions were intelligent and perceptive, and she gradually came to realise that, for a man, and a politician at that, he was that rare species, a good listener. He seemed genuinely interested, and Marnie could not believe it was just the politician's technique of making someone feel that they were the most important person around.
“Marnie, may I just ask you something?”
“Like when am I going to get round to talking about redecorating your flat, for example?”
“Something rather less agreeable, I'm afraid. Are you going to be seeing the police during your visit?”
“I have an appointment in the morning to sign my statement. That's the other matter that brings me to London.”
He nodded slowly and said nothing while the waitress brought their order. Another exchange in Spanish, a flash of the smile, and she was gone. Marnie cut off a piece of the pastry. It was light and delicious. They both agreed it had been a good decision.
“What about you?” said Marnie.
“I think it's very tasty.”
“Your statement, I mean. Have you had to sign one?”
“Tomorrow morning for me, too.”
“Inspector Bruere?”
“The very same.” They ate in silence for a minute. Marnie wanted to ask Grant if he was treated like a suspect, but she could not find a way of asking without making it seem as if she thought so, too. It was Grant who broke the silence. “Actually, Marnie, I wonder – if it would suit you, of course – do you think we might be able to look at the flat after going to the station? I have to go to a meeting very shortly, but perhaps you could come and see it tomorrow, if you're still interested in the idea?”
“Well, yes. It's how I earn my living. That's why I'm here now.”
He sighed and seemed almost weary. “Yes. But it can't be very pleasant for you having to associate with me. It must be a constant reminder to you about something you'd much rather put behind you and forget about.”
“Forgetting isn't going to be easy, not for a long time.”
“No, but it can't help the situation having to deal with someone you know is a murder suspect.”
Marnie choked on a piece of flaky pastry and quickly took a sip of coffee. Grant raised a hand and called across to the waitress in Spanish, and in seconds he was handing her a glass of water.
“I'm terribly sorry,” he said, passing her his paper napkin. “I'm afraid that took you by surprise.”
Marnie shook her head and croaked: “No … not at all … it was just the pastry.” She coughed. Grant smiled. Suddenly they began to laugh at each other.
“I promise not to do that again, Marnie.”
“It's a deal. And I'm sure they don't think of you as a suspect.”
Grant shrugged. “From what I've seen of Bruere, he's probably had his grandmother rounded up for questioning, just to be on the safe side. Anyway, you think tomorrow might suit you?”
“I can meet you at the station, presumably, unless you think we ought to be discreet about meeting.”
“No. It's not a police state, not yet. We still run most of our country, for the time being at any rate.”
“And we'll have a look at the flat? I need to see it in daylight to get a feel for a choice of colour schemes. It'll depend on what you want, of course, but I want to get the best impression of what might be possible.”
“You mean you aren't just going to provide what the Sunday supplements tell us are the in colours at the moment?”
Marnie shook her head. “It's your home. You're going to have to live with it. My job is to look at the flat, see how the light comes into each room, check out your taste in furniture. There are all sorts of practical questions.”
“Such as?”
“Do you want to replace the curtains or do they all have to stay? What type of flooring do you have? If you spent a few thousand on carpets two years ago, I need to know your wishes, that sort of thing.”
“It sounds fascinating, Marnie. I think I'm going to enjoy this.”
“And it won't just be my ideas. It would help a lot if you thought about any changes you might want to make. Is there any part of the flat that you want to make brighter. Are there any features you particularly like and want to keep, a certain colour on the walls or in the curtains? I always like clients to feel they have ownership of the scheme.”
Grant nodded. “I'll give it some thought. It'll help take my mind off things.” He finished his coffee and looked at his watch. “I'm sorry to rush you, Marnie, but I ought to get going. Would you mind if I settled the bill now?”
“Oh, let me. I seem to remember I invited you here. This should be my treat.”
“Nice of you, Marnie, but I'm rather old-fashioned about things like that. I hope you don't find it too off-putting. Excuse me a moment.” He got up and went over to the bar. While he was away, the waitress came and cleared the table. Marnie glanced over her shoulder and saw Grant talking to the young woman at the till.
Marnie smiled up at the waitress. “Where do you come from?”
“I come from Argentina.” She had a smile that any model or film star would be proud to own. “Do you know Argentina?”
“No. My parents live in Spain, in Almeria.”
“Your lover speaks …” The waitress stopped and put her hand over her mouth. “No, is wrong. Sorry, I meant your …” She searched for the word. “… boyfriend? He speaks very good Spanish, just like the Spanish. Sorry, I make mistake very much.” She giggled charmingly when she saw that Marnie had not been embarrassed by her mistake very much.
Outside, Grant asked Marnie if he could give her a lift anywhere by taxi, but she explained she would be visiting a friend. While they stood on the pavement, turning their collars up against the cold, she told him about her conversa
tion with the waitress. Grant chuckled.
“Oh well, it could've been worse. She could have said your father!” They laughed together again. He waved at a cab and they had to wait for it to perform a U-turn to reach them. Grant turned to Marnie and lowered his voice. “Marnie, it would be fine if you wanted to bring a colleague with you when you come to the flat. You have to be so careful meeting strangers in a house. Look at that poor young woman estate agent who disappeared in Fulham all those years ago.”
“You're hardly a stranger, Malcolm.” It was the first time she had called him by his first name.
“Nice of you to say so, but you must still be careful.”
Marnie was about to hold out her hand, when he raised his hat, smiled and climbed into the taxi. She watched it go for a few moments until the cab disappeared in the noisy traffic of the Edgware Road. Could he really be a suspect? Marnie looked down at her watch. It was twelve noon. She shivered in a blast of wintry air and walked off quickly to cover the short distance to a familiar front door.
*
“Oh, Marnie, come in out of the cold! It's lovely to see you.” And Marnie was swallowed up in the usual warmth and hospitality of Mrs Jolly, who led the way to her sitting room where a fire was burning in the hearth and a bottle of wine was standing already opened, with plates and cutlery on a butler's tray-table. “Now you give me your coat and make yourself comfortable in here while I bring lunch through. With you in just a minute.”
Marnie settled in an armchair, mentally bracing herself for turkey sandwiches. Mrs Jolly was as good as her word and re-appeared within moments.
“I bet you're expecting turkey sandwiches and a left-over mince pie.” She set down two plates and turned to go back to the kitchen.
“Oh, no.” Marnie began to protest, at least partly honest.
“Well don't you worry. No danger of that. Would you like to pour us a glass of wine? It's Australian. I got it at the supermarket. I hope it's all right.” She was gone.
Marnie poured a little into one glass. It was deep red, a Shiraz Cabernet from South-Eastern Australia. The bouquet was wonderful. She took a trial sip. Mrs Jolly returned with salt and pepper and sat in the opposite chair while Marnie finished pouring.
“Any good?”
“First class. An excellent choice. Cheers and a happy new year!” They raised their glasses to each other.
“I hope it's all right, but I've done something very simple, a sort of post-Christmas, nothing-to-do-with-Christmas thing. It's only a so-called ploughman's lunch.”
“If it tastes as good as it looks, it'll be marvellous.”
“I baked the bread myself this morning, and the pear chutney's home-made, my mother's old recipe.”
“What's the cheese?” said Marnie. “It looks like dolcelatte.”
“It's gorgonzola. I always get it from the little Italian delicatessen down the road. Beautiful mild creamy taste. I hope you like it.”
“Why do I always feel as if I've come home when I visit you, Mrs Jolly?”
“I'm glad you feel like that, my dear. It's always a pleasure to see you, even it if is for just a pseudo snack lunch.”
“Pseudo?”
“Well, it's not a real meal, a ploughman's lunch. There never was any such thing, of course, at least not when I knew ploughmen on the farms in Hampshire when I was a girl before the war. The idea was just an invention by the pubs for trendies and yuppies. Oh, sorry Marnie. Don’t take offence.”
Marnie laughed. “Moi?”
“Anyway, said she trying to change the subject and not put her foot in it again, tell me what you've been up to, Marnie. You certainly find yourself in some scrapes.”
“Yes.” Marnie sighed. “Where shall I begin?”
Mrs Jolly suddenly stood up. “Napkins. I always forget something. Won't be a minute.” As she went out, Marnie heard her mutter: “Perhaps the question is – where will it all end?”
*
Tuesday 3 January 9.30 am
Marnie was escorted out to the reception area of the police station by a young WPC. It was the following morning. She looked at the people sitting around the walls, but Malcolm Grant was not among them.
“I don't suppose you know if Malcolm Grant is here?” she said to the policewoman.
“Not sure. I'll ask for you.” She left Marnie and turned to speak to the desk sergeant.
“Would that be Lord Grant?” she said when she returned.
“Er, yes.”
“He's in with Inspector Bruere, but he should be coming through any time now. Would you like to take a seat and wait for him here?”
Marnie found a place near the door. After a minute she became aware that a youth, pimply and with greased fair hair, was glancing repeatedly in her direction. She found this disconcerting, but then came to the conclusion that he was looking beyond her and sizing up the possibility of doing a runner. It almost made her smile to think that she might feel obliged to bring him down in a rugby tackle if he made the attempt.
Was this the right thing to do? she wondered. Or should she walk down the road and hope Grant would ring her on the mobile when he was free? She decided to give it ten minutes and imagined Bruere giving him the third degree, with spotlight in the face and chunks of lead-filled hosepipe being waved with menace. He was more likely being addressed as My Lord and having tea served in a china cup with saucer. That was how the British establishment worked. She had had a brief talk with DS Wallace with coffee in a throwaway plastic beaker and signed her statement. He, his Lordship, well almost, was received by the Inspector.
She looked up from her watch to find Bruere coming towards her across the floor. Suddenly she felt nervous. She swallowed and stood up, wondering if there was something wrong with her statement, trying to conceal her anxiety.
“Mrs Walker, good morning. Can we have a quick word?” He gave a perfunctory smile, and seemed relaxed enough. They went into a small office down the corridor.
“Is there a problem with my statement?”
“No. It's fine. It's just that we need to be able to keep in touch with you.”
“But I've told you all I know.” She realised she was sounding like a cliché. It was just like the year before. Each time she spoke to the police, everything seemed unreal.
“You are a key witness, or at least the nearest thing to a witness that we have. We need to know where we can reach you. We've tried your home number and got the answerphone telling us your office is closed. We've tried Dr Lombard's home number and got no reply at all. We tried your mobile and it's switched off.”
“Is it?” Marnie reached into her bag and brought it out. “Well, it seems to be on now.”
“It was yesterday that we tried it.”
“But I'm sure it was ...” She shook her head. “I must have touched the button by mistake.”
“So how do we contact you if we have to?”
“I'm at my sister's house in Chiswick.” She gave him the number. “I'll be there for a few days and then back home to Knightly.”
“I gather you've been speaking to Lord Grant.” Bruere looked her steadily in the face.
“I'm planning the redecoration of his flat.”
“Nice flat is it?”
“I don't know. I'm sure it is.”
“You don't know?”
“I haven't been there yet. We're going this morning, when you've finished with him.” That did not quite sound the way she had meant it.
“You've known him long? Through Tim Edmonds, perhaps?”
“I never met Tim Edmonds.”
“Of course, I was forgetting. You just mix in the same circles.”
Marnie breathed in and spoke slowly. “I met Malcolm Grant by chance when I was at the House of Commons before Christmas.”
“And he asked you to redecorate his flat, the first time you met.”
“It's a business arrangement. That's how I earn my living. I'd do yours if you asked me to.” She had no idea why she said that, but Bruere
was irritating her, twisting everything to make it seem suspicious.
“I'm sure I couldn't afford you, Mrs Walker. I'm not a member of that charmed circle. Tell me something. Your meeting at the House of Commons, who organised it?”
Marnie thought back to the encounter when she had been left alone in the Pugin Room and Grant had come to her rescue. “It was pure chance.”
“Pure … chance.” She knew he was thinking, you come across a dead MP in the canal; he has your business card in his wallet; you say you never met him; a few days later you're in the Commons where you bump into the dead man's best friend and it's all just coincidence. But all he said was: ‘pure … chance’.
“I could find witnesses if you want.”
“Of course you could.”
“Inspector Bruere, tell me something. Is it true that Tim Edmonds was on his way to see Malcolm … Malcolm Grant, the evening he died?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me if Mr Grant is regarded as a suspect?” She was sure she knew what the answer would be.
“Anyone can be a suspect, Mrs Walker.” She had been right.
“Including me, of course.”
“In principle, yes, anyone can be. It’s nothing personal. We learn that it isn’t wise to rule anybody out, and you’d do well to think the same.” His expression was very serious. “You should be careful about what you say and to whom you say it, Mrs Walker. This is a serious business. But then I don't need to tell you about murder, do I?”
Bruere left her in reception. Walking back to his office, he was wondering if anything was really pure chance where Marnie Walker was concerned. Standing by the entrance door, Marnie was looking at her watch again, wondering why the inspector had called her in to ask for her phone number. And how did he know she was at Ralph's? In fact, how did he know Ralph's home number, Ralph's ex-directory home number? She did not see Malcolm Grant until he appeared at her side.
“Marnie, good morning. Have you been here long?”
“Hallo. No, my interrogators have only just put the electrodes away.” She hoped she sounded more light-hearted than she felt.
“I know just how you feel. Let's get out of here.” Outside, it was even colder than before, with a wind-chill that cut through clothing. “Marnie, are you still okay about coming to see the flat?”
