by Leo McNeir
“You bet,” said Marnie. “If they’re as persistent as you say – and all the evidence so far suggests they are – they won’t be fobbed off by a change of colour. We’re going to have to move fast to keep ahead of the game.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Marnie eased back in the chair, staring in front of her. Ralph thought how tired she looked.
“I think Mrs Jolly was right,” Marnie muttered. “When I spoke to her on the phone she asked if we were going to be in London. I told her about my hair appointment next week, and she said to look in on her. That set me thinking. Why not go down in Anthony’s boat?”
“What about your work? Surely you can’t go traipsing off on Anthony’s account when you’ve got a business to run.”
“Okay, but at the moment we’ve got a lull and the weekend’s coming. If I don’t get the Anthony business sorted out now, things are going to get worse. Hawksby won’t expect us to go on the offensive. He thinks he’s calling the shots.”
“So what’s the master plan?”
“It’s quite straightforward. We need to get the boat out of the way and agree action with Anthony. First I’d better find out where he is.”
Marnie rang Andrew and told him what she wanted to do. They agreed to meet on Sunday evening to agree a plan of action somewhere in the long pound between Bulbourne and Cowroast on the Tring summit.
“Will it be a summit conference?” said Anne, yawning.
Marnie gave her an old-fashioned look. “It’s secluded up there, not easily reached by road, nice and private.”
“Marnie?” Ralph began.
“Ye-e-s?”
“No need to sound suspicious. I was just wondering whether it would be a good idea if I stayed on here.”
“Of course. You’ve got work to do for your lecture tour. I do understand.”
“Well yes, but also it might be better for me to hold the fort. If we all suddenly went off it would look odd, or so the police would think. You can’t just take off without checking with Bartlett.”
“I can ring him on Monday and tell him where we are. By then he’ll probably know he’s on a wild goose chase.”
“I think you should leave a message at the station tomorrow and give him the mobile number. Let’s not make things worse than they are already.”
Marnie nodded. “Okay. That seems reasonable.” She yawned. “Tomorrow will be another long day. We all deserve an early night.”
Ralph looked at his watch. “It’s barely eight o’clock, but it can’t be too early for some.” He nodded across the table.
Anne was asleep in the chair with Dolly curled up on her lap.
17
They were up after a solid eight hours of sleep as the sky was brightening in the west. After a hasty breakfast, they set off in the cool half-light for Pinkerton’s wharf and took charge of Anthony’s boat. Ralph waved them off and returned to Glebe Farm.
Ahead of Marnie and Anne lay a long journey through gently rolling countryside, their route punctuated by locks at steady intervals, and they alternated every hour at steering and working the locks. It was a fair day, with a breeze that ruffled the canal’s surface but caused them no problems in manoeuvring. As many times before, Marnie revelled in the freedom of the waterways. The two of them standing together at the tiller, she put an arm round Anne’s shoulders, setting aside their problems to enjoy the rhythm of the boat and the beauty that surrounded them.
*
Chief Superintendent Scutt told his wife he would ring her later in the morning to pick up any messages, particularly the one he was expecting from Bartlett. He was not like those men who took their mobiles onto the golf course, even on a Saturday morning, to remind people how indispensable they were.
After packing his clubs in the car, he paused in the hall by the full-length mirror, wondering whether his new sweater in a blue and pale yellow diamond pattern looked effeminate. The phone rang on the hall table beside him, and he picked it up immediately.
At the other end of the line DCI Bartlett was impressed. He had not even heard the first ringing tone. He imagined Scutt sitting at the desk in his study catching up on office work in his own time.
“Scutt.”
“Morning, sir. It’s Jack Bartlett.”
“You’ve heard from Forensic?”
“They’ve just phoned with the results.”
“And?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Go on.”
“No trace of any soil from the field on any of their shoes. Likewise, nothing on any of their clothes to connect them with the victim. They can only prove they were on the towpath.”
“What about the ear-stud?”
“Inconclusive so far: minute scratches on the surface that could’ve been caused by a branch scraping against it, and that’s how it got pulled off.”
Scutt sighed in exasperation. “Bugger!”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been onto the hospital. Rawlings is making good progress, and they’re going to move him out of Intensive Care.”
“Has he said anything else about his attackers?”
“Not so far.”
“You’d better get over there and question him as soon as the medics give the go-ahead. Looks like he’s the only lead we’ve got. Keep me posted.”
Bang goes my Saturday morning, thought Bartlett, putting the phone down. We’re not all workaholics, like you ... sir. He grabbed his car keys and headed for the door.
Several miles away in a superior suburb of Northampton, the disgruntled Scutt decided to change out of the pale sweater, preferring darker shades, before setting off for the golf course.
*
Progress on the anonymous red oxide boat was slow but unrelenting and, though they were travelling at no more than walking pace, they could maintain their momentum without stopping for as long as the journey took, day and night if necessary, like the fly boats of old. For cover they relied on the secrecy of the canal network, passing unseen through hidden landscapes.
Mid-morning, Anne came up to take her turn as steerer. Marnie handed over the tiller and leaned against the hatch looking back at the last receding sector of the Grand Union in Northamptonshire.
“Marnie, I’ve been thinking,” Anne said slowly. “Nobody in the world knows exactly where we are at this moment, do they? That’s what you’re hoping, isn’t it?”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Are you going to leave a message for Inspector Bartlett, like you said you were?”
“No.”
“You think he’d tell you to stay at Glebe Farm?”
“Either that or come and arrest me. Why stir up trouble?”
“He’d be annoyed if he knew what we were doing, wouldn’t he? I mean, seriously annoyed. You don’t think it might be better to clear it with him, just to be on the safe side?”
Marnie shrugged. “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”
Anne smiled. “I suppose it’ll be okay if your plan works out.”
“That’s a big if,” said Marnie.
Anne pointed. “There’s a lock up ahead.” In the distance they could see the familiar black and white paint of the balance beams. “Do you think we will be able to keep ahead of the Globe, Marnie?”
“No guarantees. For now, we have the advantage. We’re invisible, and they don’t know about the change of colour, unless that journalist ran into someone who saw us at Guy Pinkerton’s place. That would really be bad luck.”
“I’ve been wondering why the man who was attacked said it was you. And how did he know your name, Marnie?”
“That’s been on my mind, too.”
Anne eased back the accelerator and brought the boat in towards the bank. “It’s all such a sordid mess. When we did the module about the media and communications at school, nobody said how cynical it all was.”
“Didn’t your teachers talk about the ‘gutter press’, ‘chequebook journalism’, all that side of thing
s?”
“I suppose so. I did hear terms like that, but nobody made it seem real. It feels real enough now.”
“I think this must be a pretty extreme case,” said Marnie.
Anne put the engine into reverse to slow the boat against the side. “I’ve learnt something from this experience.”
“What’s that?”
As the boat nudged the bank and stopped, they both stepped down onto the path, Marnie carrying the windlass to work the lock paddles, Anne to grab the centre rope to hold the boat steady.
“Bad news is good news, good for selling papers. It’s kiss and tell, like Ralph said.”
“Oh, it’s much worse than that,” said Marnie. “This time the paper set it all up. Anthony cracked under the strain, and his wife picked up the tab. That’s what makes it all so bloody.”
18
On Sunday evening with dusk falling they reached the final phase of their journey and motored out of the last of the Marsworth locks by Bulbourne junction, past the entrance to the Wendover Arm. Marnie took the tiller while Anne went forward to the cratch. They cruised past the Bulbourne workshops and entered the long pound of the Tring summit level, where wooded banks gradually began to rise on either side of the cut. The sky was heavily overcast now, cloud cover adding to the twilight, ideal for their purposes.
Marnie had no hesitation in switching on the headlamp. It would really be bad luck if they had been followed this far or were under surveillance now, so far from home. The instrument panel glowed, and the engine rumbled softly as they edged forward searching for Totteridge and Shardlow. She had pointed the headlamp down so that it lit up only the area a short distance ahead of the boat and left her night vision almost intact.
Marnie leaned forward at the sight of boats tied up on the towpath side, pale slits of light showing round the edge of their curtains. Leisure craft. She relaxed and her thoughts wandered as minutes passed.
She thought of Simon and how much he had changed. The poetry thing was unexpected. Simon had never written before, as far as she knew, but he certainly had a romantic side to his character. It had been one of the qualities that had first attracted her to him, when other boyfriends had little more than sex on their minds. Simon’s approach to their relationship had excited her more.
The first time they had gone away together, it was to a small hotel in Brittany, with a room overlooking islands in a bay on the north coast. On their first night, Simon had suggested they undress each other with the lights out and the curtains open. As their garments fell away, the only sounds were the waves running onto the shore and their own breathing. Before they slipped into bed, he had opened the French windows wide so that the moonlight could step in from the balcony during the night. In the morning she had woken to find him stroking her hair on the pillow. At nineteen years old it was a far cry from the fumbled smash-and-grab raids of other boyfriends she had known. Marnie felt the corners of her mouth forming a smile.
By now the sky was darkening. Trees on the bank were no more than shadowy shapes. A sudden movement from below brought her back to the present as Anne bustled up through the hatch.
“It’s them. They’re up ahead. Twenty metres. Towpath side.”
*
It was a tight squeeze. Fitting five people into the cabin on the butty Shardlow was no easy matter. Marnie slid in beside Kate, and Anne eased in next, with Anthony and Andrew opposite on the bed, and the door left ajar for ventilation. The cabin was lit by a single fitment in the ceiling, not much brighter than a candle.
While Marnie found space for her legs under the table, in the background came the sound of a cork being drawn, as Anthony opened a bottle of claret to celebrate their arrival. Kate twisted in her place and from the cupboard behind her head withdrew their full complement of three glasses, plus two mugs.
Marnie looked at Anthony as he poured the wine. He was scarcely recognisable with a neat beard, now well established, and his cropped haircut.
“So, what news?” said Andrew. “Why the clandestine meeting?”
“There’ve been developments,” said Marnie. “I thought we should meet and talk them over in person.”
“What kind of developments?” said Anthony.
“Your pursuers have found out about the grey boat. They’ve obviously been asking questions, and we know you were spotted in London.”
“We already knew that,” said Andrew. “That’s why you got it away from Knightly.”
“It must be safe there for a while, surely,” said Anthony.
“It isn’t there any more,” said Marnie. “People came asking questions, so we moved it to another yard, then moved it again.”
“You have been busy. So where is it now?”
“Tied up behind us. We came in it.”
Anthony was incredulous. “You’ve brought it here? Wasn’t that risky, I mean, when we know they’re looking for a boat in grey undercoat?”
“It isn’t grey any more. We’ve painted it in red oxide primer.”
Anthony’s mouth fell open, as Anne suppressed a grin. Abstractedly, he slowly muttered, “I thought primer came before undercoat.”
“That’s the point,” said Marnie. “Or one of them.”
“Struth!” Anthony exclaimed, raising himself as much as he could in the cramped quarters to squint out of the door. “You painted the whole frigging boat?” He laughed. “Just like that? Didn’t anyone see you do it?”
“No. We did it through the night, a couple of days ago. Now we’re taking her south out of the way.”
“Bloody hell!” He stared at her. “I didn’t think you could paint at night. Didn’t it go blotchy?”
“It’s only primer, Anthony, not a refit of the QE2.”
Andrew said, “You didn’t get us here just to tell us about the new colour scheme, did you, Marnie?”
“No. We’ve got to agree on what to do next.”
“In regard to … me?” said Anthony.
“Unless you intend working for Andrew for the rest of your life, yes.”
“What do you have in mind?” said Anthony.
“What do you have in mind?” said Marnie.
Anthony took a sip from his wine. “Last time we talked about it, you seemed to imply that my opinion wasn’t the only one.”
“That was then. This is now. You’ve had plenty of time to think things over. If you have a plan, we ought to know what it is.”
“You think I should come out of hiding and face the press. But you wouldn’t come all this way after doing what you’ve done just to ask my opinion. I’m guessing you have something up your sleeve, Marnie.”
“I’ve talked it over with Ralph and Anne. To be honest, I’m not sure yet how we begin, but that’s where you come in, Anthony. That’s why we’ve travelled here.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I think there may be two ways to advance. First, we exploit the editor’s own weak points. We go public about his indiscretion while at school, the girl he made pregnant and abandoned.”
“I can’t imagine him being too worried about that,” said Anthony. “This isn’t Victorian England. And how would you use the information, anyway? I wouldn’t want you leaving yourself open to charges of blackmail on my account.”
“Sure. But I said there are probably two ways forward. That’s just to soften him up. The second is to discredit the story about you and the girl.”
Anthony sipped his wine. “And how do we make all this happen, Marnie?”
The weak point: how do you make it happen?
“That’s easy,” she said softly. “You do.”
*
Ralph had spent Sunday on Thyrsis making preparations for his lecture tour, filled with misgivings about going away, but having no choice. This was the pattern that their life together would follow. At intervals he left the boat to check on Glebe Farm and its surroundings, but all day long saw no-one but the occasional walker or jogger on the towpath opposite. If anyone was watching the prop
erty, they were well camouflaged.
It was in the evening while he was packing a case, thinking of supper when the call came. He expected it to be Marnie touching base, but he was wrong.
“Ah, is that Ralph? It’s Simon.”
“I’m afraid Marnie isn’t here at the moment. She’s gone to London. Can I get her to ring you when she returns?”
“Any idea when that might be?”
“Not exactly. She’s gone down by boat, so it’ll be a few days before she even arrives.”
“I was just ringing to see how things are working out with your friend. I’m going off for a business trip, thought I’d catch up on progress before I leave.”
“I’ll get her to phone you. She has your number?”
“I’m at home in London – in Docklands – if she has time to get in touch.” He gave the number.
“I’m sure she will.”
*
Andrew pushed the doors wider open to let some air into the stuffy cabin on Shardlow. The night seemed to have closed in around them. No stars were visible and no other craft had passed them all evening. Marnie had chosen the ideal place for their rendez-vous.
“Our aim is to find two people,” she began. “We have to track down the girl who had Hawksby’s baby, assuming she did go ahead with it.”
“Ralph believes she did,” Anthony commented.
“We can’t keep on calling her the girl,” Marnie said. “Can you remember her name?”
Anthony closed his eyes in thought. “She was the daughter of the Deputy Head of one of the Houses … Poulter … Jenny Poulter.”
“Okay. The other one we have to trace is the girl in the photos. I assume you had papers when you employed her, National Insurance, that sort of thing?”
“No idea.”
“Then, who was it who introduced her to you?”
He shrugged. “Marnie, we’ll never find her. It was just a set-up. And even if we can find Jenny and the girl in the photos, what can we do about it?” He stared into his empty cup.
