Death in Little Venice

by Leo McNeir

  “Of course.”

  “I'll call a cab.”

  “We could get my car if you like.”

  “Are you on a meter?”

  “Yes, one of the long-stay slots where it was the other day. I was lucky again.”

  “Then let’s go by taxi. Pity to lose your parking place. They can’t be easy to find by the pool of Little Venice.”

  *

  The flat was on the first floor, reached by an elegant curving staircase. Grant opened the polished mahogany door and stood aside for Marnie to go in. He took her coat and led her into the drawing room. It was just what she had expected: tall ceiling, three long sash windows looking out onto the quiet tree-lined street. The furniture was antique sofas and armchairs in an assortment of deep colours now slightly faded, with a serpentine sideboard against the further end wall. Three oriental rugs were laid on the carpet. The walls were covered in a striped paper in cream and gold that was starting to show its age. Fifteen minutes from central London, the house seemed to stand in a serene corner where the sounds of the huge city could not penetrate.

  “Why don't you just wander around while I make coffee. And I have to make a quick phone call. It won’t take a moment.”

  “Fine.” Marnie took out her notebook. “Would you mind if I took some Polaroids, or is the flat covered by the Official Secrets Act, or something?”

  Grant came into the room carrying a tin of coffee. Marnie noticed it was from Fortnum and Mason. “Polaroids?”

  Marnie pulled out the camera and held it up for him to see. “Instant photos. I normally use them when a job isn't on the doorstep. It helps me to have a record of all the details I might need to take into account when I'm planning a scheme.”

  “All right.” He seemed hesitant.

  “They just stay in a file in my office. Nobody sees them except me and possibly my assistant. Look, don't worry if you'd rather not. I'd quite understand.”

  “No. You go ahead, Marnie … if you think it, well, necessary.”

  “You seem uncertain, Malcolm.”

  He shrugged and smiled. “I suppose I've lived too long surrounded by police warnings and security measures; a hazard of the job, I'm afraid. You do what you need to do, if it will help with the job.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It'll be fine. Really.”

  She made her tour of inspection and the more she saw, the more she became interested in the job. It would be a real challenge and a pleasant change from pubs and restaurants. Her notes grew alongside her list of questions and she had to rein herself in, knowing that the budget would have to be carefully worked out to keep within reasonable limits. When she returned to the drawing room, Grant had brought in the coffee with a plate of biscuits.

  “I thought we might open these. They were in a hamper I was given by a grateful constituent.” He began pouring the coffee into bone china cups. “Unless you're on an after-Christmas diet, of course. Mind you, I can't imagine why you should be. You're beautifully slim.”

  With a woman's intuition, Marnie heard a small alarm bell tinkling faintly in the distance at this first personal observation. She took the cup he offered her. “I think we're going to have to talk budgets at some stage in the proceedings, Malcolm. I've just spent the first million.”

  He smiled at her. “Good. I don't like half measures.”

  They talked for nearly an hour about colours and curtains and carpets. There were no further personal remarks and they sat on opposite sides of a low coffee table. It was all perfectly business-like and professional. Grant asked intelligent questions and gave helpful answers to Marnie's. Eventually, he looked at his watch. Marnie took this as a cue to bring the discussion to an end.

  “We've made good progress,” she said. “I wish all my clients were as well-prepared as you are. But now, you must have other things to do.” She began gathering her notes and papers together.

  “Not at all, Marnie. I was just wondering. It's getting on for twelve o'clock. How's your parking meter?”

  “I'm all right, as long as I get back by about one.”

  “Have you made any plans for lunch?”

  “I hadn't given it any thought.”

  “Would you consider a sandwich in a pub? Of course, I don't want to force myself on you.”

  “Well, why not? I was only going to my sister's to pack. I'm going back to Knightly.”

  “Your sister won't be expecting you for lunch?”

  “She's in Spain this week, visiting our parents. They retired to the south coast: sun, sea and golf courses.”

  “So you're alone.”

  “A short break.”

  Grant stood up and Marnie took this as a signal to leave. Instead, he gestured towards the sideboard topped by a tray containing bottles of all shapes and sizes. “A quick aperitif before we go?”

  “Better not, thanks. I shall be driving. And that's a beautiful sideboard, by the way.” They both knew it was genuine Chippendale, two hundred years old, but neither said so.

  “Yes. One of the things I brought up from home. I think we've had it since new.” Marnie smiled to herself at his reference to brought up, even though Cumbria was almost as far north in England as you could go. To Grant's class, London, the capital, was always up.

  She admired the piece of furniture. It looked better than new, with the patina of age buffed by generations of care and polishing. She tried to see it in her imagination against a wall newly decorated with a vibrant colour. As she looked at it, she became aware that beside the bottles stood a small parcel wrapped in gift paper, gold and burgundy, a left-over from Christmas.

  Grant was speaking. “It always makes me think of that painting by Winston Churchill, Bottlescape. Do you know it by any chance? It's at Chartwell, you know, his house in Kent, I think.”

  “Oh, really. I was just wondering about that present. You haven't opened it. It seems a shame.”

  Grant walked slowly towards the sideboard, his head bent. His voice was subdued when he spoke again. “It's not for me. It was the present I got for Tim. He was coming here that afternoon … when he died. I was going to give it to him then.” Grant coughed lightly. “Somehow I haven't had the heart to move it for some silly reason.”

  “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it. Being nosy is part of the job. I didn't mean to intrude.”

  “You weren't to know. How could you?”

  “I'm still sorry to stir up sad memories.”

  Grant walked over to Marnie and took hold of her hand. “You know I'm responsible for Tim's death, don't you?” Marnie could feel the colour drain from her face. She did not move. She was scarcely breathing. “If he hadn't been coming here that day, he'd be alive now. I blame myself.” For a second she was convinced he was going to burst into tears. She put her free hand on his shoulder. The absurd thought came to her that it must have looked as if they were going to dance.

  “You mustn't think that, Malcolm. You couldn't possibly know what would happen. No-one can live like that. We can't know the consequences of our actions, especially simple things like inviting a friend round for a drink or whatever.”

  He raised his hand and touched her cheek, putting one finger against her lips. It was a gesture of extraordinary intimacy from a man she hardly knew, but she suddenly realised that she had no fear of him. They remained in that position for only a few seconds before Grant turned away. “Sorry to impose myself like this. Bad form. And thank you, Marnie, for what you said. If you don't mind, I should like never to speak about it again.” He walked out of the room. Marnie shook herself mentally and went over to pick up her bag. When Grant re-appeared, he was holding her coat and seemed to have brightened up.

  “I suspect you've probably had enough of me for one day. So if you'd rather not bother about lunch, I'd quite understand.” He helped Marnie into her coat.

  “Let's go and eat,” she said.

  *

  Tuesday 3 January 12 noon

  The taxi pulled into a qu
iet side street round the corner from the pool of Little Venice and drew up outside a pub that had a long connection with the local boating fraternity. Marnie enjoyed being there again.

  “I feel guilty about dragging you around my old canal haunts, Malcolm, but I feel this is my part of London.”

  Grant paid the driver and turned to take Marnie's arm. “Did you actually live on your boat?” Marnie accepted his arm in the way she was sure he meant it: an expression of old-fashioned courtesy. For an older man, she was quite surprised that he never patronised her, never called her my dear, and never indulged in the kind of innuendo used by many men in their treatment of women they found attractive. They crossed the pavement and he held the door open for her.

  “No. I had a flat in north London.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “In Hampstead, near the Heath.” The pub was not yet crowded and they found a table.

  “Lovely area,” said Grant. “Probably the best part of London in my opinion.” He took her coat. “Marnie, let's not talk about business or, you know, events. Tell me about your boat. If you don't think I'm prying, of course.”

  “Not at all. And strictly speaking, she's not my boat actually. Sally belongs to my sister and her husband. They lent her to me the year before last. I went away on her for the whole summer and I've been hooked ever since. In fact, I'm buying her now.”

  “I'd love to hear all about her and your adventures on her. Shall we first look at the menu?”

  Across the floor, a man lowered his newspaper and looked over at Marnie and Grant. He liked what he saw. He had watched Grant help her off with her coat. It was long, black and dramatic. His gaze took in her short dark hair, the long grey tunic, tied Cossack-style with a belt at the waist, and the black loose-fitting trousers tucked into her boots. On the table in front of him sat a pint glass, almost empty. Marnie was vaguely aware of his stare, but was well accustomed to such attentions and paid no heed. Grant seemed not to have noticed him at all.

  The menu was on a blackboard fixed to the wall. Marnie and Grant studied it in silence for a few moments before choosing.

  “I know I suggested a sandwich,” said Grant, “but don't feel obliged. Have what you will.”

  “A sandwich will be just right. They do a very good prawn with salad here.”

  “Then I'll follow your example. And to drink?”

  “Sparkling mineral water, please.”

  “Would you mind if I had a glass of wine?” said Grant. “It seems unfair, but I'm not driving and to be honest I've never quite got the hang of this trendy water business.”

  Marnie smiled. “Then perhaps I could join you with a spritzer.”

  “Excellent!”

  He headed for the bar. Marnie was surprised how well she enjoyed his company. After all, he was a Tory MP, and a Thatcherite Eurosceptic, too. But unlike so many men she had known, he did not ramble on and on about himself, or try to impress her with lavish hospitality and compliments. He listened and seemed genuinely interested in what she said. And he had kept in good shape. She was not surprised that he was regarded as one of the handsomest men in the public eye. He was very distinguished, with fine bone structure and touches of grey at the temples. She thought she had read in an article that he regularly played squash at the Commons and had been the Seniors Champion there for some years.

  While Grant was ordering, the man at the other side of the saloon bar folded up his newspaper, finished the dregs of his beer and stood up, taking a last discreet look at Marnie before leaving. It was approaching twelve-thirty and the lunchtime customers were arriving at a steady rate. Marnie thought there was just enough time to eat before she had to give up her parking space. Grant returned from the bar carrying two tall glasses.

  “I thought I'd try a spritzer as well.” He put them down and took his seat. “First time I've had one of these yuppie drinks. Oh, is that rude of me? It wasn't mean to be.” He passed a glass to Marnie.

  “That's the second time in two days I've been bracketed with the yuppies,” said Marnie.

  “Oh dear, black mark Grant. What I meant was, I think I'm rather set in my ways, and I thought it would make a pleasant change to try something different, a new experience.”

  “You mean you're rather conservative in your tastes,” said Marnie. “Not surprising, really.”

  “Quite. Well, cheers. Here's to health and happiness.”

  “I'll drink to that. Happy new year.” They touched glasses and drank.

  “Mm. That's rather pleasant. I can see why you like this sort of thing. So, now, you were going to tell me about the good ship Sally Ann and your summer cruise the year before last.”

  Marnie explained about feeling stale at her job and wanting a break, how the partners had agreed to a spell of extended leave and how she came to be looking after Sally Ann during her brother-in-law's sabbatical in the United States. Grant gave her his complete attention, only interrupting the flow of her story to ask about points of detail, the size of the boat, what kind of engine, and so on. Marnie was enjoying herself, reliving that summer voyage. She was just explaining how she came to discover the ruins of Glebe Farm, now her home, when the air seemed to shudder, the glasses rattled at the bar, followed a second later by a thunderclap as loud as a storm directly overhead. A woman by the door screamed.

  After a moment's hesitation, Marnie was on her feet in an automatic reaction, moving round the table to head for the door to investigate. Everyone seemed to have frozen where they stood or sat. She had not gone two strides before she was grabbed by the wrist and pulled to the ground. Grant had firm hold on her and was down on one knee, his arm lying across her shoulders.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty! What the hell was that? Pardon my French, Marnie.” Marnie just shook her head, her mind racing with possibilities. “Stay here, keep down, don't move.”

  “But –”

  “No buts. Trust me, Marnie. I know about these things. There could be secondary devices. Just stay put.” Grant leapt to his feet and moved rapidly across the floor, pulling people away from the door. He turned in the doorway to face into the pub. “Everybody get down and stay there!” There was a murmuring among the customers. Grant raised his voice to a parade ground bellow. “All of you! Now! Just do it!” Everyone reacted and hit the ground. Grant pointed at the barman. “You! Nine-nine-nine! All three services. Do it man!” The barman needed no further prompting and rushed out of sight.

  Grant slipped out of the door. Marnie raised herself and looked around the bar. There was a low murmur as the lunch-time crowd stirred, asking each other what they thought was happening. Nobody moved. Nobody except Marnie, who picked her way across the floor bent double, stepping over the customers like a Cossack dancer squatting. Heads were raised to watch her passing, but no-one commented. It occurred to her that with her newly-bought clothes, she could well have been mistaken for a Russian, and she was aware how odd that must have looked in the circumstances. She reached the door and, still kneeling, eased it open, feeling the cold clean air on her face. She could see nothing and hear nothing. There was an eerie silence, no sound of traffic, no shouting, no movement. But at least, thank goodness, no wailing or screaming. She moved out far enough to look up and down the road. From somewhere nearby, a faint rumble could be heard, like the diesel engine of a narrowboat as it emerges from a tunnel, steady and low-pitched.

  “Shouldn't you stay in here?” It was a man's voice behind her, speaking softly. He was peeping through the gap of the pub door, a young man, his features pinched as if suffering from the cold. “That man, the soldier, he said we should stay put. I don't think you should be out there.”

  Marnie lifted her hand. “We're together. It's all right. Keep everybody inside. I won't be a minute.” Like him she spoke quietly. He nodded and turned back. Marnie skirted the fronts of the houses in the side street and moved carefully and quietly up towards the sound she could hear. Reaching the end of the street, she bent down on one knee and peeped slowly round
the corner. Malcolm Grant was a short distance ahead, squatting behind a car, talking quietly and urgently into his mobile phone. Marnie leaned out further and saw smoke. She knew at once that the sound she had heard was the sound of burning. One second later, she realised that the fire was consuming a car, thick smoke twisting up into the air, air that was polluted by the stench of burning rubber and oil. Marnie tried to make sense of what she saw. Far off, she heard the faint wail of a siren. Suddenly she gasped and raised a hand to cover her mouth. The centre of the blazing mass of wreckage was her car.

  12

  Tuesday 3 January 2.30 pm

  Later – it seemed like days later, but in reality only two hours had passed – Marnie sat in a quiet room, vaguely familiar, in the police station that was currently featuring prominently in her life. She realised she was in a state of shock, but definitely not in panic. Even so, it came as a surprise to her to discover that she was sitting in front of a cup of tea, with a plate of digestive biscuits. She could not remember why she was alone in the room.

  Since the explosion that had destroyed her car, much of the aftermath had gone by in a blur. It all seemed somehow unsatisfactory, as if she had been shielded from the full impact of what had happened, like a small child being sheltered from an unhappy event. This was not how she lived her life. Marnie Walker, independent self-employed woman of the world, did not need to have the truth kept from her. Nor did she want to be pushed into a siding while others sorted out her problems. She especially did not want a man, and a Tory politician at that, to be discussing her business with the police, as if she was incapable of fending for herself.

  She picked up a biscuit and irritably took a bite. It was the first food she had eaten since … since … she could not quite remember. Pull yourself together! Of course you can remember if you just make the effort! Yes, it was in the café by the tunnel. Almond pastry from Spain, no Majorca. She drank some tea and finished the biscuit. It was at the moment when her mouth was at its fullest that Inspector Bruere – who else? – chose to come into the room.