Death in Little Venice

by Leo McNeir

  To pass the time, she picked up the file of photographs that Marnie had left on the galley table, and began studying Malcolm Grant’s flat. Marnie had told her that some of the antiques, including the Chippendale sideboard, had been in the Grant family since new. Anne found it hard to believe that one of his ancestors had probably actually talked to the great craftsman at the time of ordering it. It was another world, far away from anything she had ever known. She wondered if Grant was what people sometimes called a ‘grandee’, whatever that was.

  In the photograph the sideboard shone with generations of polishing and care. At one end was a brass table lamp with a gold satin shade. A cliché perhaps, but it looked good. In the middle stood a collection of bottles, and Anne recognised the shape of one of the brandies, Marnie’s favourite cognac. At the other end was a group of photographs. And there, at the front, was the sad Christmas present, waiting for Tim Edmonds who never came for it, who never would come.

  Anne wondered what the package contained. It looked too small to be a book, more the size of the hip-flask or perhaps a boxed set of CDs. It could even be some of those tapes of talking books that Marnie sometimes played in the car on long journeys as a change from music. She looked at her watch again. Forty minutes before she should start making phone calls. If she had been in the office she would have found jobs to do. Here there was nothing for it but to wait patiently. She sat sipping coffee and let her mind wander.

  The shopping expedition had been good. She was looking forward to showing Marnie the dress, but she was sad about the beggar girl. Her thoughts turned to Dodge again … you’re a real mate, love … It probably didn’t matter that Marnie had given him that whisky. One drop more would do no particular harm. He lived for drink. Poor old soul. … I know when I see people drinkin’ booze out of a bottle … Suddenly, Anne sat bolt upright in the chair, her cheeks tingling … drinkin’ booze out of a bottle … Or could it have been a hip-flask? Her mind was racing, flooding with impressions and images all at once crowding in on her, making her dizzy. She shook her head to try to clear it, blinking and breathless.

  She picked up the photograph of the sideboard and stared at the present in its shiny gold wrapping. What if Malcolm Grant had met Tim Edmonds on his way to the flat? They might have walked along together. In the cold, Grant might have offered him a drink from a hip-flask. Men sometimes did that sort of thing. She had often seen it in television costume dramas, when they were out hunting with their dogs, men of that class, what were they called? The gentry. They might have stopped before the bridge where there was a lamp. They could see what they were doing. Not much of a murder weapon, is it? Marnie had said. But what if it had whisky or something with a drug in it? That would be possible. Perhaps it would make him drowsy and fall in the water.

  Anne knew these were just rambling thoughts, but it seemed to make sense. If some sort of drug could knock him out, perhaps it would not be traced in a body that had filled with water. It could look as if he had simply passed out from too much alcohol and then drowned. Was this all stupid? Anne was frowning, desperately trying to make sense of it all. Where did it lead? She grasped at anything that might help sort out the muddle. What else was there?

  There was the car bomb that had nearly killed Marnie. If it had not been for Malcolm Grant, she would have been in the car when it exploded. He had saved her life. No doubt about that. And the fire that had destroyed Magician? No. That really had been an accident. No doubt about that either. So back to the car bomb. Her mind wandered hopelessly trying to drag in anything that might help. Explosions. Like the shutter banging down on the van just now. Like Ronny’s firework. No. He had done that deliberately to make her … An idea formed. It was clear and obvious.

  What if Malcolm Grant had planted the bomb? What if it never was intended to kill Marnie, just persuade her that Grant was on her side, that he was as innocent of the murder as she was? Where did this all lead? She was wracked with doubts and indecision, convinced that she was raving, but there seemed to be no other way out. She looked again at the photograph. Everything led to Malcolm Grant.

  *

  “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Malcolm, something I want to show you.” The phone rang again, interrupting Marnie before she could produce the hip-flask.

  “I’m awfully sorry about this.”

  Malcolm went out to the kitchen while Marnie contained herself in patience. She got up and wandered around the room again, drawn inevitably to the sideboard. The photographs seemed to be mainly of people in uniform, and she tried to spot Malcolm as a young man. There were group shots, mainly in formal military dress, and the odd individual photo posed in various locations. At the back of the collection was an engraved pewter tankard. She leaned forward to read the copperplate inscription, which was not easy with the light reflecting from the surface, and could just make out the name Grant: youngest colonel in the Falklands. It seemed to be a gift from the officers and men of his regiment. It must have been his last action as a soldier, the year before he entered politics. No wonder the Iron Lady took a liking to him, one of the heroes of her war in the South Atlantic. Judging by some of the photographs, Malcolm seemed to have been in the Commandos.

  Marnie recognised several faces in other parts of the collection, and was not surprised to see the former Prime Minister herself in more than one. Here, a formal posed group during a visit to his constituency, the MP proudly standing beside his leader; there, a group shot perhaps from the party conference, with ministers and the PM plus acolytes, one of them Malcolm and just behind him … Tim Edmonds, looking out as if from Malcolm’s shadow. She recognised him from newspaper articles and from another photograph of the two MPs together, Tim Edmonds again standing slightly behind his friend, as if in his protection. Despite their smiles, strain showed in Tim’s handsome features, and Marnie guessed that this came from the time of his fall from favour when Malcolm was his only friend. A good friend to have in time of trouble.

  *

  Anne was feeling anxious, but determined to keep a cool head. She made up her mind to ring Ralph at once and left Rumpole to make the call. She did not want to use the mobile while still on the boat, just in case. In case of what, she was unsure, but she was going to take no chances.

  Two streets away from the canal, she switched on the mobile and pressed the button to bring up the memory system with its list of phone numbers. It was blank. Impossible. She stared at the mobile, cursing under her breath. Not impossible. This was the new phone, and Marnie had not yet built up its list of numbers. Damn! What could she do? Think quickly, Anne. The address book was back in the office. Not much help there. How could she contact Ralph? She set off jogging towards the tube station and found the phone box.

  “Directory enquiries, what name please?”

  “It’s All Saints College, Oxford. Porter’s Lodge, please.”

  As the electronic voice read out the number, Anne keyed it into the mobile’s memory. She checked her cash: a few notes, but very few coins, and made a short call to Oxford.

  “All Saints, good afternoon.”

  “Hallo, I’d like to speak to Professor Lombard’s office, please.”

  “Professor Lombard doesn’t have an office here as such. He’s not in today. Would you like to leave a message for him?”

  “I have to contact him at his meeting and I don’t have a number.”

  “I’m sorry, miss, I can’t help you.”

  “Does he have a mobile?”

  “Oh no, miss.” He made it sound as if that would be the end of western civilisation.

  After hanging up, Anne chewed her thumbnail in frustration. What was she to do? What college was Ralph visiting? UCL. She had seen University College. It was enormous. Somewhere in that pile of buildings Ralph was sitting calmly talking about examinations, while she was out here fuming and fretting. Another call to directory enquiries. Another number.

  “Economics department, good afternoon.”

 
“Good afternoon, can I speak to Professor Lombard, please? It’s urgent and he’s expecting me to call.”

  “We don’t have a Professor Lombard in this department, I’m afraid. This is University College.”

  “Yes. He’s from Oxford. He’s at an examiners’ meeting.”

  “Ah, yes. The external examiners meet in Senate House.”

  “Oh. I don’t suppose you have a number?” Anne was close to despair. It must have shown in her voice.

  “I can transfer you, if you’d like to hold on.”

  “Brilliant! I mean, thank you. Yes, please.” Anne had one more coin left and wished she’d asked for the extension number in case she ran out of money before she was connected.

  A new voice at the end of the line. “Were you wanting Professor Lombard?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “He’s in a meeting at the moment.”

  “Yes, I know, but he wanted me to call him. It is urgent.”

  “I see.”

  Anne was close to exploding and felt like threatening this calm woman with violent bodily harm. “I’d be very grateful if you could ask him to come to the phone.”

  “Actually, the meeting room is at the other end of the building.”

  Anne wanted to scream: Then start running, you moron! She said, “Would it be possible to get a message to him?”

  “I can’t promise, but I’ll see what I can do. Would you like to hold on or can I ask him to ring you back?”

  “Thank you. Can you ask him to ring Anne Price on this number.” She gave the mobile number and rang off. This was awful. She felt like screaming and stamping her foot in anger and frustration. It was dreadful having to depend on other people like this. And then, suddenly and without warning everything became clear. She would not depend on other people. She would follow Marnie’s example, what Marnie used to call the Royal Marines School of Management. Seize the high ground. Quickly she delved into her bag and pulled out her notebook. In it she found Malcolm Grant’s address.

  *

  Malcolm came back into the room as Marnie was looking at his army photographs. He stood next to her at the sideboard, staring at his life laid out on its shiny surface.

  “So you were in the Commandos?”

  “Royal Marines, yes. Fourteen years.”

  “You must have joined straight from university.”

  “That’s right. Even at university I was on a military studentship.”

  “Do you think it was a good preparation for the world of politics?”

  Malcolm reflected. “I suppose so, though that isn’t why I joined the army. It taught me to be self-reliant and disciplined, taught me about leadership.”

  “What about the Lords? How do you feel about that?”

  Malcolm turned away and went back to his chair. “The Lords?” His tone had cooled. “It’s quite an honour, really.”

  Marnie sat down. “Ralph was talking about the Lords with Michael Blissett when I was in the Commons once. I thought it was a kind of promotion. They said it was the end of a political career to go to the Lords. Is that how you see it?”

  “Frankly, Marnie, I never had a burning ambition to get to the top. I just wanted to serve and do my bit, a hangover from my time in the army, perhaps.”

  “Yes. I suppose your military career must have shaped your whole attitude to things. I hadn’t realised you’d been a soldier until the day my car was blown up.”

  “Really?” The tone was casual. “What do you mean? I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “The way you reacted after the explosion. It was very impressive. In fact, one of the people in the pub referred to you as ‘the soldier’. Curious. Up till then I’d not thought about it. But I saw at once what he meant.”

  Malcolm smiled lightly and shrugged. “Old training, you see.”

  “Yes. You were decisive when everyone else was afraid.” She smiled. “Going out there with no backup, no team, no support at all. You seemed to act with no thought of fear for yourself.”

  “You were pretty cool, too, as I remember, Marnie. I was likewise impressed. Who knows what might have happened? Not many people would’ve done that.”

  “No. My friend Anne would’ve been scared.”

  “Anne? She’s very young, isn’t she?”

  “Of course. You know, the other day a boy let off a firework beside her. The result was that she jumped straight into his arms.”

  “Understandable,” said Malcolm. “Probably nice for him.”

  “That’s what I thought. A very predictable reaction for a girl, perhaps, to jump into the arms of another person, particularly a man, or a boy in that case, when confronted with that kind of danger. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Well, yes. I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Marnie.”

  “I was just thinking of how most people would react to a bomb going off. It takes a lot of confidence to be able to go out into the unknown after an explosion. After all, we’ve all heard about secondary devices.”

  Marnie heard the clock tick five times before Malcolm stood up. “I think I’ll put on some coffee,” he said.

  As soon as he had left the room, she went over to the sideboard. It had a drawer fitted with two neat brass handles. She pulled them, and the drawer slid open with a smooth action. Inside she saw a box of cigars, a cigar cutter and the sad Christmas present, still in its wrapping. She noticed that it was about the same size as the hip-flask in her bag. She noticed one other object in the drawer. Lying on the box of cigars was a revolver.

  *

  Anne looked out of the window of the bus and saw Regent’s Park go by. She looked at her watch … repeatedly. She looked at the mobile, praying for Ralph to ring, desperately needing backup. To her surprise, it rang while she was looking at it. She jabbed hurriedly at the button.

  “Ralph?”

  “Hallo. Is that Anne Price?” It was the calm woman from UCL, the one she wanted to strangle with her bare hands.

  “Nice of you to phone back,” said Anne, gritting her teeth.

  “I’m afraid I’ve not been able to speak to Professor Lombard. He’s just left.”

  “He’s gone back to Oxford?”

  “No. I understand he’s catching a train to Bristol.”

  “Bristol?”

  “Yes. He’s speaking at a seminar there tomorrow morning. He’s gone to stay overnight.”

  “Thank you for trying. Very kind of you.”

  “No trouble at all. Good-bye.”

  What do I do now? Anne thought. She was determined never again in her entire life, no matter what the circumstances, even to herself, even in her wildest moments, to say how perfect everything was in her life. Not ever again.

  *

  When Malcolm came back with the coffee, Marnie was just sitting down. She began smoothing out her dress, giving the impression that she had shifted in her seat and was making herself comfortable again.

  “Do you feel like a biscuit to go with this?” Malcolm asked. “I think I was given some chocolate Bath Olivers at Christmas. They’re very good, you know. What d’you say?”

  “Sounds tempting.”

  “Let me just think. Where did I put them? Won’t be a minute.” He left the room looking pensive.

  As soon as he went out, Marnie delved in her shoulder bag and took out the flask in its plastic bag. She went over to the sideboard and placed the flask on the silver tray where the Christmas present had stood. She was back in her armchair by the time Malcolm returned. He set about pouring coffee into Spode cups, offering cream from an exquisite Georgian silver jug, with cubes of Demerara sugar in a matching silver sugar bowl complete with tongs. The Bath Olivers lay on a Spode plate, and Malcolm passed them to Marnie. It was all very civilised.

  “Is it very different working under this Prime Minister compared with Mrs T?” Marnie asked casually, making conversation.

  Malcolm snorted. “Chalk and cheese,” he muttered.

  “He comes over as quite a nice bloke,�
� Marnie ventured.

  “As my lot go, you mean?” Malcolm’s smile was rueful. He shook his head. “Nothing like Maggie. You can’t compare them, Marnie. Maggie was a real trouper.” As he spoke, Malcolm had a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. She had seen others with that look when talking about the Iron Lady, and she wondered what led people to want to follow her. It must have been a sense of strong leadership, she supposed.

  “It must have been hard for you to see Tim Edmonds on the opposite side in the Prime Minister’s leadership contest,” Marnie suggested.

  Malcolm’s expression changed at once. “Of course I should’ve known Tim would opt for where his own interests would be served.” Marnie was surprised at the bitterness in Malcolm’s voice.

  “But don’t you think he genuinely held the same views as Mr Major? Wasn’t it just a matter of principle, like all your usual arguments in politics?”

  “You can’t be too naive about these things, Marnie. He may well have held the same views, but he was determined to exploit the situation for his own ambitions. He’d decided that he still had some, you see … ambitions, that is, and in the end he didn't mind who got pushed aside so that he could get back on track.”

  “I see.”

  “I wonder if you do see, Marnie. I wonder if you really can understand.”

  “Well, I remember someone telling me that every MP believes he or she can one day get to the top, be Prime Minister.”

  “That sounds like your friend Lombard, or someone of that ilk.”

  “I think it probably was, actually. Was he right?”

  “Oh, academics are usually right.” Malcolm made a dismissive gesture. “But then they would be, wouldn’t they? They’re the ones who write the books. Let me tell you, Marnie, it’s always easier to judge other people, than actually do the job.”

  “But you don’t think Tim Edmonds believed he could get to be Prime Minister?”

  “Not any more, but he thought he was in with a chance of high office. That’s why he ingratiated himself with the PM and everybody in sight who had influence.”

  “You make him sound pretty ruthless.”

  “Ruthless,” Malcolm repeated. “Do you know what was the unkindest cut of all? It was Tim telling me that I was going to be kicked up to the Lords. Tim of all people.”