by Leo McNeir
He walked round the car again, looked in the engine compartment, checked the tyres were firm, pulled the handbrake. “Good foresight, taking the battery out and leaving the handbrake off.” Thank you, Paul. “I can have a look at it in the morning. But I checked our records. We've done quite a bit of work on it already. That's an XPAG engine in there, good as new. Recon gearbox. Dodgy clutch. Pity not to be running it. How can I contact you?”
“That's difficult. I've got meetings. Can I ring you tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure.”
“One other thing. Do you think you could drop me at a tube station?”
*
Night had fallen as Marnie approached the supermarket. Her mobile rang.
“Marnie, it's Malcolm. I think we need to talk. I'm worried. We need to plan.”
“I'm tied up just now.”
“Okay. I don't think it'd be a good idea for me to come to Chiswick. Could we meet somewhere for dinner?”
Marnie felt things were moving too fast. “I'm not sure. It's been rather a tiring day, you know.”
“That's why I suggest we talk. We can't do it on the phone.”
“All right. But I don't want to be late.”
“Fine. Where shall we meet? You choose.”
“Do you know Albert's in Regents Park Road?”
“Isn't that rather a long way from Chiswick?”
“That's okay. I'll be there at eight.”
*
Marnie spotted Roger in the supermarket at the checkout. His trolley was full. “Are you planning for a siege, Roger?”
“No. You are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Help me with this lot and I'll explain outside.”
Instead of wheeling the trolley out to the car park, Roger turned left towards the canal. Between them, they lifted it over the grid designed to keep trolleys away from the water, and trundled along to where Rumpole was moored. They unloaded everything onto the deck, and Marnie took the trolley back while Roger ferried the bags and Marnie's case down into the galley. They cast off and pushed away from the path. Compared with Sally Ann, Marnie found Roger's boat as quiet as a whisper. The headlamp lit up the water ahead of them, and there was no other traffic on the canal that evening as they slipped between the houses and offices that lined the cut. Roger and Marnie stood close together with the tiller between them.
“This is all very mysterious, Roger.”
“I've had an idea. You phoned me for advice, and I have some for you.”
“I expected legal advice from my solicitor.”
“I haven't got any. At least, nothing that'll help deal with your present circumstances. I've got help and advice as a friend, though. I think that's what you need right now.”
Marnie put her hand on Roger's arm. “What do you have in mind?”
Roger explained his plan as Rumpole cut steadily through the dark water, heading down past Porta Bella dock and the Harrow Road towards Little Venice. “You can't stay at your sister's house, Marnie. Not if someone's looking for you. It's too easily traced. You can't return to Knightly St John for the same reason. And that applies to staying with friends as well.”
“You're cheering me up, Roger. Should I just jump into the canal now and save us all a lot of bother?”
He reached over and put his arm round her shoulder, squeezing her gently. “Take the tiller for a minute. I'm making coffee.” Standing alone on the aft deck, Marnie felt isolated and vulnerable again, though she realised that on the canal she was in a secret world outside the realities of life in general. Roger was soon back on deck. The coffee tasted good, and the warmth of the cup penetrated Marnie's gloves as she held it in both hands. Something else in the coffee penetrated more deeply too.
“Rum?”
Roger nodded. “Just the thing for a winter's evening.”
“Go on about your help and advice from a friend. I don't think we've got to that bit yet.”
“You need somewhere safe to stay. Simple as that.”
“Yes. I'd worked that much out by myself.”
“So where do you go?”
“Ah. That's the bit I haven't got sorted.” She sipped the coffee for comfort.
“Do you remember Old Peter's mooring?”
“Down by Paddington Basin?”
“It's not been used much since he died. I cruised down there a week or two ago. The gap where he moored is still there.”
“Not surprising. It's a dump.”
“Apparently someone is renting it, but they’re away for a while.”
“You're suggesting I bring Sally Ann down here and live on the arm that leads to Paddington Basin?”
“No. You couldn't get her down here. Too many winter lock closures. Anyway, you might be spotted. I'm suggesting you stay on Rumpole and use Old Peter's mooring. No-one would ever know you were there.”
Marnie looked at Roger in amazement. “That's brilliant!”
After half an hour they passed under the bridge by the canal office and entered the pool, turning right past Browning Island and easing their way into the narrow channel leading to Paddington Basin. Even on a bright day, this was a gloomy stretch, with office buildings keeping out the light, and grimy bridges criss-crossing the murky, litter-filled water. But in the dark of a January evening, with no light but the headlamp on Rumpole, it was a sad and depressing place. It seemed unconnected with other parts of the city and as undesirable an area as Marnie could imagine. She thought the rats hereabouts would probably go around in pairs for safety.
“What do you think?” said Roger.
“It's beautiful.”
*
After Roger had left, Marnie unpacked and took stock of her new base. Rumpole was spacious and better equipped than Sally Ann, with a modern shower room, plenty of storage – now filled with provisions – and an efficient diesel-fired heating system. Because Roger and Marjorie mainly used the boat for relaxation and entertaining, much of the cupboard space was empty. Marnie rationalised most of Roger’s tackle into one cupboard containing cleaning gear, tools, spare ropes and a child’s fishing net. This came as no surprise because most boaters carried a net for retrieving objects lost over the side in the shallow water of canals. But for some reason Marnie found herself smiling. In her mind she had an image of Roger, big burly solid Roger the solicitor, sitting on the side of the boat with his trousers rolled up to his knees. He had a handkerchief knotted on his head to protect his scalp under its light down of thinning hair, and was holding the fishing net, looking like a garden gnome. Chuckling quietly, she began to unpack her clothes.
They had agreed on two major policy decisions. The first was that Marnie would not use the solid-fuel stove in case the smoke from the lum betrayed the presence of someone on board. The second was that Marnie would not use her mobile phone except in an emergency. This introduced a sinister element into the equation that disturbed her, with worries about surveillance and the monitoring of calls. But she knew she had to agree. And there was a phone on Rumpole that she could use in safety.
Outside, the bank was surfaced in concrete bounded at one end by a bridge, enclosed by a high brick wall. The area extended alongside the moored boats, leading down to Paddington Basin half a mile away. A door set into the wall opened onto the street where traffic rolled by on its way towards Paddington Station. High above the scene loomed the huge mass of the elevated urban trunk road, known as Westway, that blotted out the light and cast this short branch of canal into a near-constant gloom. This was a neglected and forgotten place.
In the corner, an elderly caravan huddled up against the bridge. It looked as if it dated from the fifties. Marnie had been inside it once before, when Roger Broadbent had explained the contents of the will of Old Peter, bequeathing her the drawings and papers of the great canal engineer William Jessop that had been lost for two hundred years.
So this was her temporary home. Marnie sat in the saloon and tried to think through her situation. It was simple. S
he was in hiding. The question was: from whom? Answer: whoever had tried to blow her up. She found it hard to believe that anyone could wish to destroy her. She had found a body, but apart from that, she had no other involvement in the matter. The problem was that someone else took a different view. As long as the murder of Tim Edmonds remained unsolved, she was in danger. As long as she kept out of sight, she had a chance of surviving. Thank goodness for Roger. At that moment the phone rang. It was a gentle ring, but it made her stomach churn.
“Hallo?”
“Marnie, its Roger. Sorry to startle you, but I’ve been in touch with the British Waterways office in Little Venice. I spoke to Jack Stevens, the man in charge. I told him I’d had a spot of bother with the engine while I was running back from Paddington Basin. He agreed I could leave Rumpole there until I got it sorted out.”
“Nobody needs the mooring?”
“No. Not for some time, with any luck. No-one’s going to bother you.”
“Roger, I can’t thank you enough.”
“No need.”
“There is one thing. I said I’d have dinner with Malcolm Grant this evening. Do you think I should cry off?”
There was a pause. “Where are you meeting him?”
“Near Primrose Hill. I don’t really want to go out, but I can’t stay hidden indefinitely.”
“Do you think you can trust him?”
“It’s not that … after all, he saved my life. It’s just leaving here that worries me.”
“You should be okay if you can get a taxi. After all, no-one knows where to look for you. But do you want to see him? That’s the point.”
“I feel drawn, Roger. He’s the only person I can talk to about what happened. And he’s got connections. He stands a better chance of finding out what’s going on than I do by myself.”
“Seems to me that you’ve made up your mind.”
After the call, Marnie stared at the mobile in her hand. This is really weird. Somebody out there seems to know everything about me, where I am, what I'm doing, even what I'm thinking.
She changed into her darkest clothes, adjusting to a new way of life, trying to think like a fugitive. It meant planning every move in advance. It meant creating a backup system, taking precautions. One part of her thought it was an adventure, until she remembered the body of Tim Edmonds floating in the canal. Another part thought it was all absurd, until she remembered her car, mangled and blazing at the roadside. To keep her thinking positive, she decided to make one phone call.
“Anne? Hi! It’s me.”
“Are you safe? I've been worrying about you all day.”
“I'm okay, but I have to be brief. Listen, I'm not staying in Chiswick. I'm somewhere else.”
“How can I contact you? How will I know if you're all right?”
“I'll phone you every day. Whatever you do, don't ring me on the mobile. If you want to get in touch, try this number late in the evening or early in the morning.” She gave the number of the phone on Rumpole. “If you get no reply, it takes messages. If you don't hear from me within a reasonable time, contact Roger Broadbent. I'll give you his number.”
“I've got it already.”
“Of course. I should've known.”
“You're not going to tell me where you are, are you, Marnie?”
“Better not to, just now.”
“What about your plans? Anything I can do?”
“I'm having dinner with Malcolm Grant this evening. I think we've got to put our heads together to try and sort things out.”
“Do you trust him, Marnie?”
“Do I have much choice?”
“Does he know where you're staying?”
“No. Only Roger knows that.”
“What about Ralph? Have you spoken to him? I meant to tell you, he's left three messages on the answerphone at the office. You'll have missed him now. He's on his way to America. He seems okay and just assumes we're at meetings.”
“Did he leave a number?”
“Only a hotel in Tokyo. It's too late to reach him there now. Perhaps he'll ring you on the mobile.”
“Ah …”
“What?”
“It's switched off. And I don't really want anyone using it at the moment.”
“Okay. I'll monitor the answerphone and let you know if he leaves a contact number.”
“Fine. Good idea.”
“Marnie, you really need me with you. You shouldn't be facing everything alone like this. Don't forget I'm here.”
Afterwards, Marnie sat in the saloon, planning the evening, working on an idea. She checked her wallet. Luckily, she had plenty of cash. Next she checked the mobile. It took several minutes to remove all the stored numbers from its memory until there was nothing that could connect it with her.
Turning off the lights before opening the hatch, she went out into the cold night. A distant street lamp lit up the scum on the canal. None of the other boats showed any lights. There was not a wisp of smoke from their chimneys. God! she thought, what a forsaken place. And thank goodness for it. She unlocked the door in the wall and slipped out, walking quickly towards Paddington station. One or two cabs passed her in the traffic, but she kept her face down and ignored them.
Inside the great vaulted space of the main line station, she found a newsagent and located what she was looking for. The pay-as-you-go mobile phones were in a display near the entrance. She read the instructions on the box. It was just a matter of registering, and it could be used straight away. She presented five tenners to the man at the pay desk, a cheerful Indian with a ready smile.
“You can be a real yuppie, now, my lovely. Ring all your friends, tell them you're going into a tunnel.” He had a sing-song voice and flashed a smile of brilliant white teeth in a dark face as he laughed at his joke. Like all attractive women, Marnie had become accustomed to the attentions of men, most of which she ignored. But at that moment, she could have hugged this one.
“If I switch it on,” she asked, “does it give off a signal just by being on?”
“It gives a signal all the time, even when you don't switch it on. That's how the company knows where to find you. It's like Big Brother.”
“I'm not sure I understand.”
The newsagent called one of his staff to serve the next customer. “Look, it's like this. The phone is always awake. It is telling the firm where you are. It tells the nearest cell your exact location. That's why it's called a cellular phone. But it's not really Big Brother. It just has to know where you are, so you can receive your calls.”
“It sounds rather sinister to me.”
The Indian lowered his voice and tapped the mobile's box. “My brother-in-law works for this company at head office. They often deal with the police tracing the movements of people over a period of time to find out where they've been.”
“Can anyone do that?”
“No. Just the police, or people like that. But you don't have to worry. You don't look suspicious to me.” Another flash of the big smile.
After this conversation, Marnie had a change of plan and headed toward the departures board. Going into a tunnel, she thought. Cardiff, Swansea, Fishguard. That looked promising. Better still, there was one train heading for Exeter, Plymouth and Truro. Even further. She quickly consulted the timetable. It took ages to get to the end of its journey. Platform nine. The train was there, but a ticket collector was checking everyone that approached it. Fortunately, the station did not have barriers, and Marnie found it easy to pretend she was going for the train on the adjacent platform where no-one was watching. Halfway down the platform, she stepped across to the Cornish train and quickly boarded at the nearest door. It was more full than she had expected. Trying to appear like any normal passenger looking for her reservation, she walked down the aisle, her heart pounding. In fact, she was scanning the carriage for something special. It was in First Class that she found it. Here, there were fewer passengers. She took a seat by the window, praying that the train would not
leave before she could get off.
Satisfied that no-one was observing her, she slipped the old mobile out of her coat pocket and wedged it firmly between the seat and the carriage wall. She stood up and checked. It was out of sight.
“Do you require dinner, madam?” The voice behind her made Marnie jump. “A table for one? We're now taking bookings.”
Marnie struggled to keep her composure. “Actually, I was just starting to get worried. This is the train for Fishguard, isn't it?”
“Oh no, madam. You're on the wrong platform altogether.” He pointed through the window. “That's the South Wales express over there. You'll have to hurry.”
She thanked him and set off at high speed. At the top of the platform, she turned towards the taxi rank and stood back to let a man take the cab at the head of the queue so that she could have the one behind it. As it pulled away, she saw the Cornish train close its doors and begin moving off. Somewhere inside it her old mobile was hidden, silently giving off its signal to anyone who had the technology to be able to check where she was going.
If anyone was tracking her, they were tracking her to Land's End.
*
When Marnie arrived at Albert's, Malcolm Grant was there before her, sitting at a table with a glass of Scotch.
“Am I late?”
“Not at all. Spot on.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek.
Nearly all the tables in the bistro were occupied, and Marnie glanced at the other diners while she perused the menu. They were mostly couples, apart from a group of six people in the opposite corner. The atmosphere was friendly and intimate. A low murmur of conversation. A normal evening surrounded by normal people. Malcolm noticed her eyes wandering.
“Just what I was thinking, Marnie. Nice place. Good choice. Would you like something to drink first, or are you ready to order?”
“I’m ready to order, I think. The trout with almonds is usually very good, but I expect you're a steak man. I ought to warn you, if you have the mushrooms à la grèque as a starter, you'll have to keep clear of other people for at least three days.”
“Strong on garlic?”
