by Leo McNeir
“Of course I’m not.”
“Marnie, that’s how he’ll see it and, more to the point, it’s what his lawyers will be telling the judge – when he gets an injunction slapped on you – or the police before they cart you off to the nick.”
“Oh Ralph, don’t exaggerate. It won’t come to that … will it?”
“And there’s another small consideration,” said Ralph. “The girl, even if you can find her, won’t want to be thrust into the limelight. Nor will her child, who’s grown-up by now.”
“There’s no reason for her to be thrust into the limelight. Hawksby won’t let it get that far. He wouldn’t dare call our bluff. We’d only need to contact her to make sure we were on firm ground.”
“Even so.”
Marnie shrugged. “Then we’ll find some other way of checking the facts. You can probably come up with the details if you think hard enough about it. If you’re convinced it’s the truth, Ralph, it must be okay. I can’t think of anyone more reliable than you.”
“Then maybe you should try listening to what I’m saying. Didn’t it occur to you that Hawksby could go to the police and accuse you of trying to blackmail him?”
“Hardly. I’d not be demanding anything but an end to his hypocrisy. I’ve already worked out how to do it. I’d write a letter to the editors of all the national dailies.”
“Marnie, are you ready to face the consequences of what you’re proposing? Do you really want all the media attention? This isn’t a simple matter of kiss and tell. You’d be playing with fire.”
Marnie grimaced. “So we just sit back and do nothing? Anthony’s wife can commit suicide, he can try to kill himself and fail – at least at the first attempt – and we can do nothing about it. That’s it? We give up? End of story?”
“Do I tear up my list?” said Anne.
Ralph looked out of the window. When he spoke, his voice came from far away. “Not necessarily. There might be other ways of looking at it.”
*
“Hi Marnie, it’s me.”
“Hi Beth.” Her voice was as flat as a polder.
“So you’ve told him. What did he think? Or do you need to tell me?”
“He thought it was probably the worst idea since the invention of athlete’s foot. But he let me down gently, said he’d think it over. Save your breath. I’m feeling deflated enough.”
“Oh, Marnie. I just wanted to say I was sorry. I think I may have over-reacted.”
“No kidding,” said Marnie. She paused. When there was no reaction, she said, “No, you were probably right. Ralph agreed with you about this one.”
“You mustn’t go blaming him. He only has your interests at heart.”
“I know. But it’ll amount to the same thing in the end.”
*
Ralph had suggested they talk before supper so that the meal would not go as unnoticed as lunch. The three of them sat in the study on Thyrsis, each holding a white wine spritzer. While Ralph spoke, Marnie and Anne listened in silence.
When he finished, Marnie said, “I don’t get it. What you’re saying is, you basically agree with me? Have I got that right?”
“I’d say I’m sympathetic in principle to what you want to achieve, yes. But I think your tactics are too risky. Too much of the risk would fall on you. I want to avoid that at all costs. Knowing you as I do, I suspect you’ll go ahead anyway. I’m looking at damage limitation.”
“So you don’t object to our trying to establish what happened to the girl who had the baby – if she did – and you’re convinced she did – as long as we don’t try to force her into anything against her will. Right?”
“I think that has to be the bottom line. If she can’t face it, then the whole thing would have to be dropped. There’s a limit to how many people have to suffer to help Anthony sort himself out.”
“Good,” said Marnie. “I agree.”
“Good,” said Ralph. “And what do you think of the rest of my views?”
“What you’re basically saying is that we follow my plan but with different people taking the action.”
“Yes. It’s no good you going after Hawksby. That could rebound on you, which would be very unfortunate. I know how you feel about Anthony’s wife, and I understand that’s your reason for wanting to do something, but Anthony has to take that responsibility on himself.”
“Always assuming he’ll do it,” said Marnie.
“That’s the other half of my bottom line. If Anthony won’t play his part, the whole thing is off.”
“Do you think he will?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. In its favour is that it at least offers him some form of action, and I doubt if he’ll think of anything better. He might just think he’s got nothing to lose.”
“He can hardly sink any further than he has already,” said Marnie.
“Well, that’s up to him. These are desperate measures to meet a desperate situation, as you might say. We’re dealing with the Rottweiler British press, one of the fiercest in the world.”
Anne laughed. Marnie and Ralph stared at her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I know it’s very serious and all that, and the whole thing scares me to death, but I just thought of something I read about the press for our current affairs module at school. It said, ‘Dog bites man – no news. Man bites dog – that’s news.’”
Ralph smiled. “That’s right. It’s an old saying in journalism.”
“What about ‘Man bites Rottweiler’?” said Anne. “That would be news, wouldn’t it?”
15
The next day, Thursday morning, Marnie interrupted her concentration to take a policy decision: her hair needed a trim. She made a call to Joanne at the salon in London for an appointment the following week. She had hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang.
“Marnie, it’s Stevie from Queen Eleanor boatyard. Are you selling the boat you left here? You didn’t say anything about that when you brought it.” Her tone was bordering on a reproach.
“Selling it? No. It isn’t mine to sell. I’m just –”
“Look, is there any chance you could call in?”
Marnie paused. “Is everything all right, Stevie?”
“I’ll be in all morning if you can make it.”
Bewildered, Marnie said, “Okay. I’ll come over now. I’ll give the MG an outing.”
“Come in by the delivery gates. Okay?”
How strange, Marnie thought. Could Stevie really be miffed that Marnie might be selling the boat without using her as agent? And what was that about coming in by the delivery gates? ... the delivery gates ... Less conspicuous, less public. She thought about cars, the MG, a 1930s sports car, very rare these days, even in this area near the Silverstone racing circuit that attracted enthusiasts in unusual cars from all over the world to its events. She thought about Ralph’s Volvo, ten years old. Stevie had joked about it in the past when she had seen it, said it was built like a truck.
“What was that about?” said Anne.
“Stevie wants me to go round.”
“What for?”
“Didn’t say. I expect the boat’s in the way and she wants me to help move it. Must be short-handed this morning.”
“You sounded surprised.”
“It was just her tone. I think she’s under stress. I’ll just pop over and sort it out. Won’t be long.”
“Nice morning for a drive in the MG with the top down,” Anne observed, looking towards the window.
Marnie stood up, grabbing her shoulder bag. “That reminds me, we haven’t seen Ronny since he injured his hand on the MG that day. I hope his accident hasn’t ruined a beautiful friendship.”
Anne smiled. “Er, well, I do hear from him. He gives me a ring some evenings when he’s finished his homework. I think he’s still keen to get the MG shining for you. He said he’d come down at the weekend.”
“Okay, but you keep an eye on him. I don’t want him hurting himself again.”
“Sure. I�
��ll tell him. Don’t worry. He’d do anything for me.”
“Really? Well, I hope you don’t take him for granted.” Marnie picked up the phone. “Ralph, it’s me. Do you think I could borrow the Volvo for an hour or so?”
*
Marnie drove past the regular boatyard entrance, swung in through the tall black delivery gates and parked at the back of the workshops. She walked through to the office along a narrow corridor with no windows, that smelled of oil and machinery. At the far end she found Stevie leaning on the reception counter, checking documents. She looked uneasy.
“Marnie, I’m sorry to have to call you out like this, but something strange is going on.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Your boat. Someone’s been here looking at it.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday. I spotted this bloke in the yard, asked him if he wanted something. He said was the boat for sale. You haven’t advertised it anywhere have you, Marnie?”
“No.”
“But could the owner have advertised it? The man said he understood it was on the market.”
“Wrong boat. He probably just turned up on spec.”
Stevie shook her head. “Not this one. I get enquirers all the time. I know when someone’s genuine. This man wasn’t serious about wanting to buy, but he wasn’t just passing time, either.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“There was something about him. He was really fixed on that boat. He took photos of the boat, the yard. I even thought he was going to take one of me, but then Gus turned up. That put the wind up him. One look at Gus – all tattoos and arms like tree-trunks – and he backed off.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“Not sure. We’re always getting people in and out of the office, and I can’t be here the whole time. I did think I saw movement on the towpath side opposite the yard, but it could just’ve been kids, I suppose.”
Stevie led Marnie out onto the wharf and pointed across the canal. The towpath was bordered by a hedge, with a field beyond. They stood thinking in silence beside the few Queen Eleanor boats that were not out on hire. The grey anonymous boat rested alongside them.
“Odd,” Stevie said quietly.
“I’m sorry about this,” said Marnie.
Stevie shook her head. “He didn’t ask any of the questions people always ask when they’re looking at a boat. That man was more interested in the owner, if you ask me.”
*
Marnie parked the Volvo beside the barn and went straight to see Ralph on Thyrsis. She outlined her talk with Stevie.
“It’s started,” Ralph said. “I don’t want to sound alarmist, but they’re on to him. The question is, are they on to us?”
“You think they could be?”
“What else could it be? We know he was spotted on his way through London. It was only a matter of time before they worked their way up here.”
“Are they so determined?”
“Newspapers are always under pressure to keep up their circulation. They’ll do everything they can to track him down and they seem to know what they’re looking for. We can’t just airbrush him out of the picture now.”
Marnie stared at Ralph.
“What?” he said. “Marnie?”
*
A thick tattooed arm pushed open the door to Stevie’s office. She was sitting at her desk going through VAT returns.
“What’s up, Gus?”
“Your boyfriend might be back.”
“My boyfr- ... oh, right. Where is he?”
“I think I just saw the slippery little sod on the bridge.”
“Coming this way?”
“No. Going over.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Think so.”
“Okay. Well if he comes back –”
“Don’t worry, Stevie. I’ll know what to do.”
*
Marnie was thumbing through the address book section of her filofax in the saloon when Ralph went on board Sally Ann for lunch. “Anne, what’s the name of that engineer up by Blisworth, the one with the crane on the wharf? Something like Pillock.”
Anne was at the workbench in the galley washing tomatoes. She laughed. “Sounds promising.”
Marnie ploughed on through the P section. “It’s here somewhere. Got it! Pinkerton.” She hit buttons on the phone.
Ralph picked up plates and set them out on the table while Marnie was talking.
“Are you sure about that?” she was saying. “You’ve got that quantity in stock? ... Right. And the guns? I’ll need three ... Good. If you can put them aside, I’ll call by this afternoon ... That’s definite. See you later.”
Marnie pressed more buttons and had to wait a while before getting a reply. Ralph raised an eyebrow at Anne, who shrugged.
“Hi Andrew. It’s Marnie. How’s it going? ... Right. Listen, tell Anthony someone’s snooping around up here, could be a reporter ... Yes, around the boat ... I’m getting it sorted. Tell him to be vigilant. ... I’ll keep in touch. Thanks for all you’re doing. Bye now.”
Anne put the cheeseboard on the table. “Did you say guns, Marnie?”
“No need to be so surprised. Desperate situations call for desperate measures.” She smiled sweetly.
“You are going to share this with us, presumably?” said Ralph.
“Share it? Absolutely. We’re all in this together up to our necks.” It was not the last time she was going to say those words in the days to come.
“Why doesn’t that bring me any comfort?” said Ralph.
They took their seats at the table. The picnic lunch looked inviting, but they ignored it.
Marnie took a sip of mineral water. “Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.”
*
While they unloaded the materials from the boot of the Volvo, Ralph found himself thinking that his next car would be the estate version. It had been a busy day, and it would be an even busier night. They arrived at the Queen Eleanor boatyard by arrangement with Stevie as darkness was falling, and locked the gates behind them.
Marnie’s plan was to cross the canal bridge and check the bank on the opposite side. The village was deserted as they slipped over in silence and took the steps down onto the towpath. The three of them squatted at the foot of the hedge and shone torches through.
Anne pointed and whispered. “Look at that. It’s been disturbed. Someone’s definitely been standing here.”
Marnie tried parting the hedge, but it was too dense to pull open. She tried getting her head through a gap, but it was too tight and she had to resort to pushing her torch between the branches. She strained forward. “You’re right, but they weren’t just standing.”
“What do you mean?” Ralph said in her ear.
“Have a look. The ground’s all churned up.”
“More than one of them?” said Ralph.
“That’s what I was wondering. There’s been a lot of movement here.”
Anne had walked further along the path. She knelt down, her face close to the ground, peering through. “Here as well. The footprints come as far as this.”
Ralph was leaning over the hedge, hoping for a better view. “This wasn’t caused by just one person,” he said in a low voice, quieter than a whisper. “There’s been a group here, I’m sure of it.”
“Ow!” Marnie stood up, rubbing her cheek where twigs had scraped her face, her mind filled with images of newspaper photographers in a posse, blazing away at celebrities. “Paparazzi?”
“Could be.”
“Surely not. Stevie would’ve seen them.”
“Maybe not, if they were determined to stay hidden,” said Ralph.
“I wonder where they are now,” Anne muttered. “Maybe someone’s watching us at this very minute.”
“Come on,” said Marnie. “We’ve got work to do.”
Back in the boatyard they unloaded their supplies onto the grey boat in the dark without speaking
. When everything was on board, Marnie pressed the starter button, and the noise from the engine was horrendous after their efforts at silent running.
She pointed the boat up-channel and settled down for a nocturnal journey, her eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness. In half an hour they reached their goal, turning off the main line to pull in at a secluded spot a fair distance from any habitation, between weeping willows either side of the docking area of Guy Pinkerton, boat engineer. As Marnie brought the anonymous craft in to the wharfside, she was thankful that it was a still night. No breeze ruffled the branches of the willows trailing in the water. It was perfect for what she had planned.
Marnie went below quickly to slip overalls on top of the dark clothes she had worn for the journey. The three of them unpacked their materials and equipment, attaching extension cables to a bank of power sockets to which Marnie found the key.
“I think that’s everything,” said Ralph.
Marnie nodded. “Good. Okay. Let’s get on with it.”
*
The dawn chorus began just before five. Marnie’s eyelids had been replaced by strips of lead and her mouth had been re-programmed to the yawn function. The sky had turned from dark blue to grey to pink, and it was bright enough to make out the branches on the trees and reveal the buildings beside them. It was also bright enough to show the colour of Anthony’s anonymous boat. No longer grey, it had been transformed by their efforts with paint and spray-guns. They had not done a bad job. The paint was drying quickly to give an all-over coating of red oxide. It now looked like any one of a hundred boats along the canal, waiting to be given its final topcoats of paint. Anyone looking for a grey boat would have to look elsewhere.
They cleaned up every trace of their presence that night. Not a splash of paint on the dockside revealed that they had been there. The newspapers and tape used to cover the widows were bundled into a rubbish sack and dropped into the bin. When they were satisfied that they had covered their tracks, they trooped below to flop down on bunks and couches for as much sleep as they could squeeze in before eight o’clock.
