Kiss and Tell

by Leo McNeir

  Ralph could picture Anthony lying among his empty bottles and thought there was no possibility of doubt. “Uncertainties,” he repeated.

  “Do you know if he was a heavy drinker?”

  “Not really.”

  “On medication?”

  “What kind of medication?” said Marnie.

  “A tri-cyclic anti-depressant.”

  Ralph shook his head. “No idea. Though he did seem rather solitary. Perhaps he drank to combat loneliness.”

  Dr Siddiqui leaned forward on the desk and rested her chin on her hands. “It’s possible that he may have been taking his tablets, started drinking, got confused, took too many. It can happen, but usually to older people living alone.”

  “You think it might have happened to, er, Mr Alexander?” said Marnie.

  “Hard to tell. The dose may not have been big enough for a suicide attempt. He may not have drunk enough alcohol and may not have taken enough tablets to kill himself. Not quite.”

  “In which case, it could’ve been an accident?” said Ralph.

  “If you know of no reason why he might’ve wanted to take his life, it’s possible.”

  *

  After looking in briefly on Anthony, they left the hospital just before eleven. Marnie suggested stopping somewhere on the way home. They were sitting in the garden of a hotel in Towcester, where sunshine was breaking through for the first time that day. The other tables were unoccupied.

  “What’s on your mind?” said Ralph.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Well, when you suggest breaking our journey at a hotel ten minutes from home, it makes me wonder if there’s something you want to talk about in private.”

  “We’ll make a detective of you yet.”

  “Fire away, then.” Ralph felt sure he knew what Marnie wanted to talk about.

  “I wanted to talk about Anthony and his attempted suicide.”

  That was not it. “Of course,” he said. “You believe that’s what it was.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m assuming he heard about Melissa and tried to kill himself. Not surprising.”

  “He bungled it,” said Marnie. “It was lucky for him you turned up, otherwise he might’ve succeeded.”

  Ralph smiled ruefully. “I doubt he’ll see it that way. He’ll be mightily cheesed off when he finds he’s been saved.”

  Marnie frowned. “I saw a film once about the First World War. French, I think. There was a soldier badly wounded in a battle, shell-shocked. He got confused and crawled the wrong way, accused of desertion, surgeons struggled to save his life so he could be executed in front of his regiment.”

  “Pour encourager les autres,” said Ralph. “We saved him so he can go through hell. But we couldn’t choose to let him die. That would be inhuman.”

  “Of course. But from his point of view he’ll end up as the loser however things turn out. If he’d only drunk more Scotch and had more tablets, he might’ve been better off than facing the future he’s got now.”

  People were beginning to arrive for Sunday lunch, their minds on roast beef and all the trimmings. They scarcely glanced at the quiet couple sitting at the edge of the garden.

  “Actually, there was something else on my mind.”

  “Yes,” said Ralph.

  “It’s about Simon.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was only after we set off for the hospital with Anthony that I realised you’d been left behind.”

  “It was all a great rush.”

  “But I didn’t even discuss it with you.”

  “You were busy, discussing it with Simon.” Ralph stressed the word discussing. “It was interesting to see you like that.” He smiled.

  “You must’ve felt left out.”

  “Perhaps. But I didn’t feel jealous then and I don’t feel jealous now.”

  Marnie smiled. “You don’t suffer from insecurity.”

  “But I know the feeling. Actually, Simon doesn’t strike me as insecure either. Very confident, success written all over him.”

  “I’ve told him about us,” said Marnie.

  “I know. He said you’d told him we were an item.”

  “Yes, I did. He’s another one who’s had to come to terms with problems. Mind you, I can’t see Anthony solving his difficulties the same way as Simon.”

  “What did Simon do? He certainly looks as if he does it well. He’s in business, presumably?”

  “I didn’t mean that. Simon went for therapy. Perhaps that’s what Anthony ought to do.”

  “And he found it helpful?” Ralph asked.

  “Simon said he found a way to sublimate himself.”

  “Hard work? That’s what I did after Laura died.”

  “Partly. But more than that. He’s taken up writing poetry.”

  “Poetry? That does surprise me. Although, I suppose he does rather have the air of a Romantic poet about him, if appearances are anything to go by.”

  12

  “I’m going to ring the hospital.”

  “Now?” said Anne, looking up at the clock.

  “It’s gone nine,” said Marnie. “Anyway, hospitals run all the time.”

  “Are you still worried about him?”

  “I’m just going to check if there’s anything he wants us to bring when we visit this evening.” Her tone was casual.

  “Fine,” said Anne. “So you are worried about him.”

  Marnie reached for the phone and pressed buttons. “The doctor said you can never tell how someone will react to drugs. Though I expect he’s walking around already and telling them he wants to go home ... or whatever. Hallo? Good morning. Oliver Kenton ward, please.” While she waited to be connected, Marnie looked at the desk diary, thinking of visiting times. “Oh, good morning. I’m phoning about Mr Alexander, Simon Alexander ...” She listened. “But I understood he’d been transferred to this ward ... He’s what? ... When did this happen? ... I see ... No. I had no idea. Thank you.” She put the phone down.

  Anne was staring at her. “What’s happened?”

  Marnie shook her head. “I can’t believe it. He’s discharged himself, left the hospital an hour ago, put his clothes on and walked out.”

  “Can he just do that?”

  “He just did.”

  *

  Ralph came as soon as Marnie rang him on Thyrsis. He arrived through the office door like a projectile.

  “Did they say where he’d gone?”

  “No, only that he’d left. He dressed after breakfast, said he was feeling fine, thanked them very politely and walked out. That was it.”

  “Well, I wonder what’s next on the agenda,” said Ralph.

  “Do you think he is fine?” Anne asked.

  “God knows,” said Marnie. “He must be a bit shaky. Last time I saw him he looked dreadful.” She turned to Ralph. “Do you think they knew who he was?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “What do hospitals do if someone discharges himself like that?” Marnie said.

  Ralph shrugged. “Probably write to his GP.”

  “And if they don’t know who the GP is?”

  “Ah, yes, I see what you’re getting at. I expect they have two choices. They either do nothing because their patient has gone and they’re too busy dealing with the ones who are still there ...”

  “I think we can guess the second one,” said Marnie.

  “Try and trace someone called Simon Alexander?” said Anne.

  “No,” said Ralph. “Inform the police.”

  “Great,” said Marnie. “Especially if they suspect he might be a potential suicide case. Anne, let me know when Inspector Bartlett arrives. I’ll go and run out the red carpet.”

  *

  The car was heard rolling into the yard an hour later. Marnie and Anne looked at each other across the office and sighed in unison. Anne stood up and looked out.

  “It’s not their usual car,” she said. “The police’ve
got a grey Cavalier like dad’s. This one’s a Mondeo, I think.”

  “Blue light flashing?” said Marnie wearily.

  “No, it looks like ... uh-oh. Guess what? It’s him. Mr Thingy-Brown.”

  Marnie leapt up. “With the police?”

  “No, with a taxi driver.”

  Anthony came towards them. He still looked sickly pale, but he walked steadily and gave a weak smile when he saw them at the window. The cab driver was standing patiently at the side of his car.

  “Marnie, hi! Could you possibly lend me a tenner to pay the driver? My cash is on the boat.”

  “Sure.” Marnie fetched her bag and handed him a note.

  Anthony paid and returned, both hands laden with bulging carrier bags. Unlike the police, he accepted the offer of a cup of coffee. Anne pulled up a chair and he lowered himself gently to sit beside Marnie’s desk.

  “We know about the hospital,” said Marnie. “Did you leave because you thought someone had recognised you?”

  “No. But I wanted to get out before anyone did.”

  “You do realise the police’ll be arriving any time now? My guess is the hospital will tell them where you were found. Their cars automatically head for here whenever there’s any kind of trouble south of John O’ Groats.”

  Anthony closed his eyes. “Oh god,” he muttered.

  “They can’t do anything if you haven’t committed a crime.” As an afterthought she added, “That girl wasn’t under age, was she?”

  “I keep telling you, she wasn’t even a minor. She was eighteen. Definitely. But don’t you see? The word’ll get round. The press will find out I’m here. It’ll be awful.”

  “Tell me, Anthony, was it an accident? The doctors thought it could’ve been. Was it a mistake with your pills?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well,” she said. “They can’t prove anything.”

  “They don’t need to.”

  Marnie reached for the phone.

  “What are you doing?” He looked panic-stricken.

  “I’m going to tell Ralph you’re here. Believe it or not, people have been worrying about you.”

  *

  The three of them had trudged through the spinney, Marnie and Ralph carrying the shopping, Anthony dragging himself. They dropped the carrier bags in the anonymous boat and went on board Thyrsis.

  “How did you manage to get all that shopping?” said Ralph.

  “Easy. I had an emergency fifty quid note in my back pocket. Old habit.”

  “And just as easy to get out of hospital too, it seems.”

  “Yes. Once I was outside, I walked to a shop, bought cheap sunglasses and got a taxi to Towcester. Found a supermarket. Got a minicab to bring me here. Voilà.”

  “Which brings us back to the eternal question,” said Ralph. “You’re going to have to face facts, Anthony. You can’t keep running for the rest of your life.”

  “Ralph, I can’t face the media right now. I’m regarded as a national disgrace, my wife has killed herself and I’ve just tried to commit suicide.” He laughed without humour. “I couldn’t even manage that properly. The papers would have a field day. Look at me. Do you think I’m capable of handling all that?”

  He was a pathetic sight, unshaven, wearing a grubby shirt and crumpled trousers, a man on the run.

  “We must get you away from here,” Marnie said. “You and the boat.”

  “What do you have in mind?” said Ralph.

  “A quick getaway at four miles an hour?” said Anthony with a gallows smile.

  “Old Chinese proverb,” Marnie said. “If you want to hide a leaf, put it on a tree.”

  *

  The Queen Eleanor fleet was one of the smallest on the canal system, but it had a good reputation. It had been founded twenty years ago by a retired naval officer who could not imagine life away from water and invested everything he had in a modest boat repair yard on the Grand Union Canal near Blisworth.

  Among its assets was a thirty-foot narrowboat that was hired out to visitors for short trips, and it gave him the idea of fitting out a bigger boat for holidays. It became the first in a series, the fleet taking its name from the Queen of England, Eleanor of Castile, whose body had rested in Northampton in 1290 on its way back to London for burial. Her grieving husband, King Edward I, had paid for stone crosses to be erected at every place where her body had stopped overnight, twelve in all, the most famous being at Charing Cross in London. Three of the crosses survived, two of them in Northamptonshire. Each boat in the fleet bore the name of a Queen Eleanor Cross.

  After fifteen years, the naval officer retired for a second time on reaching his ‘three score years and ten’, and handed the business over to his son and daughter, who had proved in their five years in charge that their father’s faith in them was well justified.

  It was late in the afternoon when a boat painted all over in grey undercoat and bearing no name slipped quietly into the Queen Eleanor boatyard alongside another boat primed all over in dark red. No-one paid any attention to the boat or to the woman at the tiller who brought her in single-handed.

  *

  “Walker and Co, good afternoon.”

  “It’s me. Any visitors?”

  “Not so far. All quiet on the western front. Package safely delivered?”

  “Yes. He’s going to have an early night. Have you seen Ralph?”

  “He’s here. Hang on.” Anne passed the phone.

  “Hallo, Marnie. I’ll come straight away.”

  “Great. Listen, can you bring my briefcase with you? It’s on the floor by the desk. And my filofax. Oh yes, and there’s a set of rolled-up plans. Better bring them, too.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Just keeping up appearances.”

  *

  When Ralph drove in to the Queen Eleanor boatyard he saw Marnie speaking into her mobile by the back door. She finished the call as he drew up beside her. He recognised the determined look in her eyes; she was in decisive mood. She slipped into the front passenger seat and leaned over to kiss him.

  “I’ve got your things in the back,” he said, reversing into a three-point turn.

  “Slight change of plan,” said Marnie. “Can we go to Yore first? I want to look in on Frank Day.”

  “Marnie, there’s something that’s slightly bothering me,” Ralph said, as they drove out of the boatyard.

  “Would that be the idea of leaving a man who’s recently attempted suicide all alone on a boat?”

  “You don’t think that’s a tiny bit risky?”

  Marnie looked out at the fields they were passing. “No.”

  “Any particular reason why not?”

  “First, he seemed willing enough to agree to the plan. I think he wanted to be helped.”

  “Okay. And second?”

  “Second, if he’s going to do himself in, he’ll do it no matter where he is. If he’s going to stand any chance of getting over this business, he has to see that we trust him.” She thought fleetingly of Simon’s haiku. “He’ll have to take one day at a time.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure. I hope you’re right.”

  “It’s his life, Ralph.”

  “So, problem solved, then, for the time being at any rate.”

  “I give it a day,” said Marnie.

  “A day? Is that all?”

  “One day max. With the police breathing down our neck, not to mention the press, a day’s not bad going. What we do next is the question.”

  Ralph glanced quickly sideways at Marnie. “You’re about to tell me you’ve got that figured out, too?”

  “No. I haven’t a clue. But at least we’ve bought a day to work it out.”

  “We’d better have a talk with Anthony tomorrow, see what he has in mind.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Ralph was surprised. “You don’t?”

  “He’s not been too successful so far, has he? Time someone else had a go.”

  “And th
at someone is you?”

  “It’s us. Come on, Ralph, you’re the brainbox. What’s the logical thing to do? What’s your key factor, or whatever you call it?”

  “You’re much better at handling this kind of thing than I am,” said Ralph, accelerating through Towcester past the town hall. “It was your idea to hide him and his boat in a boatyard. Brilliant. No-one’ll know he’s there. I don’t see why he can’t stay there for a good while.”

  “Simple. Because the boatyard people will know he’s there, and the word will get out. We can leave him there for a day, but no longer. The press’ll be on to him in a flash. Just you wait.”

  “Yes, the damn paparazzi!”

  “Exactly,” she sighed. “Simon was right about that.”

  “You talked about it with Simon?”

  “Of course. He said he’d like to rub the editor’s nose in the dirt. I know just how he feels.”

  Ralph frowned. “Maybe, but I don’t see how that’ll help Anthony.”

  “What will?” said Marnie. “That’s the question.”

  For the final mile or two of their journey they retreated into their private thoughts. Ralph was pondering the possibility of letting Anthony stay at his Oxfordshire cottage. It could be a practical expedient and buy more time. Marnie’s thoughts involved piranhas and pushing newspaper editors into the canal on a dark night.

  *

  Frank and Janet Day lived in a traditional Northamptonshire long house, about two hundred years old, built of the local stone, set back from the road in the middle of the high street. Yore was a smaller village than Knightly St John, laid out on gently sloping land that ran down towards the canal. Janet answered the doorbell and led them through to the sitting room, where Frank was sitting on a sofa, a newspaper folded beside him. The room was spacious, comfortable and homely. Frank looked drawn and grey.

  “Good of you to come,” he said, smiling weakly, gesturing to two armchairs. “Forgive me if I don’t get up.”