Kiss and Tell

by Leo McNeir

  Anne quickly ran across to the shops and was soon back in the car.

  “What did they say?”

  “They just said okay, didn’t ask any questions, didn’t say anything else. I expect the cards are already in the bin.” She pulled on the seat belt. “Oh well, at least I tried.”

  She turned her head to look over at the shops. Beside her, Ralph stirred.

  “Something’s bothering you,” he said.

  “Sort of.” She bit her lip.

  He started the engine. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

  *

  On the way from Rachel’s flat to the tube station, Marnie rang Judith Wilkins. It was the inevitable answerphone. There were no real people left on the planet. She recorded a brief message that she would ring again later and disconnected.

  *

  “There.” Ralph stopped the car on double yellow lines and looked down the road ahead of them.

  “What is it?”

  They were looking at a modern development of offices several storeys high, with a wide drive into which an articulated lorry was turning. It was carrying enormous rolls covered in plastic material, like the round bales of hay in the fields after harvest.

  “Do you see the name on the building? There’s a signboard over there.”

  Anne read it out loud. “Global House – home of Global Communications International.”

  Below the heading, in smaller letters, were the names of publications: The Globe, The Sunday Globe, Global Market Review.

  “That,” said Ralph, ”is their headquarters.”

  “Hawksby’s office?”

  Ralph nodded. “Top floor, I believe, though I’ve never been there myself.”

  Anne looked at the enormous complex. It seemed to fill the whole road, the hub of a news empire that had almost a quarter of the UK newspaper market covered. This was the power-base of Jeremy Hawksby, the organisation they had decided to fight.

  “Blimey,” she muttered.

  *

  The lack of positive progress was getting through to Marnie. She sat on the tube train rattling across the city back to Simon’s place and felt frustrated and depressed. Looking round the compartment, she noticed that quite a few of the other passengers were reading the Globe. Feeling cornered, surrounded, claustrophobic, she stood up and went to stand facing the doors, watching the black walls of the tunnel flash past in a blur.

  *

  “Got it! I know what it was.”

  Anne leaned earnestly across the table. They were sitting in a bistro in Butlers Wharf.

  “Go on,” said Ralph.

  “I know what was odd back there, that street where Anthony met Marlene.”

  “Yes. I think I know what you’re going to say.”

  “It was a hopeless place for begging. It wasn’t really a through route to anywhere. What do you think?”

  “Certainly a strange place for beggars, assuming she was just begging.”

  “Yes. It was just a side street. And if she was, you know, a hooker, I can’t imagine she’d do much trade with people popping out to buy cod and chips and the Evening Standard.”

  Ralph smiled. “No. I agree with you.”

  “So it could’ve been a set-up,” Anne said firmly.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Good,” said Anne. “At least we can tell Marnie we’ve got that sorted out.”

  “Yes. But maybe good isn’t quite the right word, Anne. You do realise that means we’re back to square one? Let’s hope Marnie’s had better luck this morning.”

  *

  Marnie stared half-heartedly at the menu. Ralph reached across to touch her hand, and her fingers closed around his. Anne sat fingering the book of matches in the ash tray, wishing she could do something to improve things. Anything. She read the name of the restaurant on the cover of the matches: The Tower Quay. She flipped it open. The matches were tipped in bright blue. A waiter appeared at their table.

  “Have you chosen?”

  Marnie had barely focused on the print. “Not quite,” she said.

  He bowed slightly and withdrew.

  “Would you prefer to go somewhere else?” Ralph said quietly.

  “No. This is a really good restaurant, and I ought to jolly well buck up and stop spoiling it for you.”

  “Don’t worry about that. It’s not as if we’ve got much to celebrate.”

  “Oh, what the hell! I’ll have tiger prawns followed by rack of lamb. Okay?”

  Ralph gestured towards the waiter who took their order and was back in two minutes with a bottle of Chilean red. He poured three glasses. Anne stopped fiddling with the matches and slipped them into her back pocket.

  Marnie picked up her glass and admired the colour of the wine. “Sorry to be a wet blanket, but we’re getting nowhere and not very fast. I can’t get hold of Judith Wilkins, and you don’t think we stand any chance of finding Marlene over the river. And they may be onto Anthony hiding on Andrew’s boat.”

  Ralph raised his glass. “To absent friends.” They drank.

  Marnie said, “This wine is rather adventurous for you, Ralph. Very fruity. It’s good.”

  “I thought it might make a change. Anyway, in these surroundings I wanted to do something fashionable.”

  “Why not, you trendy. Would you mind if I just checked the answerphone for messages?”

  She pressed the buttons to interrogate the machine. There were several routine messages on the Glebe Farm number, nothing urgent. She saved them for later and continued listening.

  “Andrew,” she muttered, pressing the phone close to her ear. “Engine noise.”

  When the message ended, she put the mobile on the table and stared at it.

  “Amaze us,” said Ralph.

  “Yeah, make our day,” Anne joined in.

  “He sounded agitated. Wants me to ring him urgently.”

  “You’ve got time to phone him before the first course arrives.”

  *

  Not being one of those who entertained other people in restaurants with their telephone conversations, Marnie stood outside on the terrace overlooking the river to phone Andrew.

  “Marnie, thank goodness! I’m really sorry about this.” There was no sound of the boat’s engine running.

  “Why should you be sorry? What’s happened?”

  “Apparently, not long after we left the yard, this journalist turned up with a photographer. Cliff said they were really annoyed that we’d gone, kept saying he knew there were three of us and wanted to know who the other man was. Cliff couldn’t think what to say. He told them he didn’t know Tony and had never seen him before. Also I think he accidentally gave away which direction we’d gone in.”

  Marnie kept her voice calm and even. “Where are you now?”

  “We’ve turned up the Wendover Arm, gone round the bend after the first bridge. I figured they might not know about the canal up that way, and if they asked anyone they’d be told it was only passable by small boats.”

  “Good idea. But you’re going to have a hard time getting your pair out of there when the time comes.”

  “We’ll manage. I just wish I was a quick thinker like you, Marnie. I’m not used to this kind of thing. Apart from hiding out, I couldn’t think what to do next.”

  “Your instincts were right, Andrew. Now, I suppose the important thing is to get Anthony out of the way. Let me think it over. I’ll ring you in the morning.”

  “I’m really sorry I’ve blown it, Marnie.”

  “No. You’ve done well, and thanks for everything. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

  But we’re about to find out, she thought, as she turned to go back into the restaurant. Before she had gone two paces, the mobile rang.

  *

  “You know that silly question: do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  Ralph and Anne nodded, neither convinced that the good news part was about to apply. Marnie rejoined them at the table,
where the first course had just arrived.

  “You mean there is good news?” said Ralph.

  “Judith Wilkins rang. I can see her tomorrow.” Marnie unfolded the napkin and spread it on her lap.

  “That’s good.”

  “In fact, it gets slightly better before the bad news kicks in. Judith lives in St. Albans and, being just north of London, not too far from the Grand Union, it means I can collect Anthony without going too far out of the way.”

  “Collect Anthony?” Ralph echoed.

  “That’s the bad news.”

  Marnie explained the situation while they ate their starters.

  Ralph said, “Is this where you tell us, as usual, that you’ve worked out what to do next?”

  Marnie ate a forkful of grilled tiger prawns served in a piquant sauce for which the chef was renowned. His efforts, on this occasion, went largely unnoticed.

  “That’s the other bit of bad news.”

  24

  On Friday morning the phone was ringing when Marnie and Anne unlocked the door of the office barn. It was becoming a habit, and Marnie approached the phone with apprehension. But it was only the builders’ merchant with a problem, and to Marnie it was light relief compared with her recent worries.

  “So how long will the roof slates be delayed?” she asked.

  “Could be a month, maybe six weeks.”

  “What? Where are they coming from ... Scotland?”

  “Tarragona.”

  “The only Tarragona I know of is in Spain,” she said sarcastically.

  “That’s right.”

  “Look, the planning regs state they have to be local, to match the existing ones. Where does Spain come into the local category, or have some Tectonic plates moved while my back’s been turned?”

  “Eh? You can’t get grey slates in Britain any more, me dook, only Spain has the right colour.”

  “Then get Welsh blues. They’ll match the ones on the other cottages.”

  “Can’t do that. Planning said they have to be grey. They’ve got to be local.”

  Marnie put her hand over the mouthpiece and sighed to Anne across the room. “I don’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

  But Anne was not paying attention. She was rising from her seat, straining to hear a sound from outside, crossing quickly to the window.

  “We’ve got a visitor. Don’t know the car.”

  Marnie said into the phone, “Gotta go. I’ll get back to you. Don’t order any slates at all – grey, pink or orange – till I’ve talked to you again, okay? Bye!”

  She joined Anne at the window in time to see the driver step out into the yard. There were no tape recorders or cameras, just a grey dress and a dog collar. The vicar had come to call. Marnie and Anne had never seen Angela Hemingway before. Marnie thought she looked like her name. It seemed to her a tall name, and she was long and thin with mousy hair and a horsy, not unpleasant face. She caught sight of them at the window and the face lit up into a friendly smile.

  Marnie pulled the door open. “Hallo.”

  “Hi! This is my third attempt to meet you. I’ve heard such a lot about you both.”

  They shook hands and ushered her in, offering a seat.

  “I think Mr Fowey told you I’d be coming to see you.”

  “Yes. He popped in for coffee one day.”

  “He praises your coffee to heaven.”

  “How appropriate,” said Marnie. Anne took the hint and had the kettle filled in seconds.

  “Did Mr Fowey also tell you we were Zen-Buddhist-Jewish-Hindu-Catholics?” Marnie enquired in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “He did ... and therefore ripe for conversion!” The smile again. It transformed her.

  As they drank they made polite small talk about settling into the village, taking on a new job – a first parish – and moving into the rectory. Sooner or later they all knew the conversation would turn to Toni Petrie, Angela’s dead predecessor. Marnie decided to take the lead.

  “You’ll know that Toni became a friend of ours in her short time here.”

  “Yes.” No smile this time.

  “Did you know her?”

  “Only slightly. I saw her at the patronal festival in the cathedral once. She sang a solo introit with the choir. It was marvellous.”

  Anne said, “I remember the first time I heard her singing in the church. I thought she sang like an angel.” She looked down as her voice faded.

  “Quite a contrast with Randall, her predecessor,” Marnie said cheerfully. “But both very nice in their different ways. How do you like the decor in the rectory? That was all Randall’s work.”

  “Was it? I didn’t know that. It’s quite ... well ...”

  “Yes it is,” Marnie agreed.

  “Certainly is,” said Anne.

  “I was going to say ... lively.” The smile returned.

  “Oh yes. That’s Randall, all right. I think he’s enjoying his new job.”

  “Rural Dean suits him,” said Angela. “He’s full of ideas.”

  “Yes. We’ve been over to see his drop-in centre.”

  “For drop-outs,” Anne added.

  “I was there last week,” said Angela. “It was thriving, if you can say that about that sort of hostel.”

  “We visited at Christmas,” said Marnie. “There was a really good atmosphere, easy-going, welcoming.”

  Angela took a sip from her cup. “I think it’s because the ... what does Randall call them? ... the guests ... they feel relaxed because no-one pries into their lives, no questions asked, all very private. Mr Fowey was right. This is excellent coffee. I’ll have to think of all sorts of excuses to come visiting you.”

  She took another sip. It seemed like the cue for a response, but none came. When she put the cup down, Angela looked at Marnie who was staring at her. Marnie turned quickly to Anne.

  Anne had the same expression on her face as Marnie. She nodded. “Got it,” she said.

  *

  There were times that spring when Marnie felt she had become a perpetual motion machine. The end of every journey only seemed like a pit stop before the next stage began. On that Friday morning they were going to split forces. Ralph had meetings at his college in Oxford. Marnie would travel down to St Albans to meet Judith Wilkins and go on to pick up Anthony. Anne would hold the fort in the office.

  It was when Marnie put the phone down after speaking with Randall Hughes that Anne pointed out a snag.

  “Good,” said Marnie. “That’s all arranged. We can go to Randall’s this afternoon. No problem.”

  “Except for one small detail,” said Anne, looking up from her notepad.

  “Detail?”

  “You haven’t got a car, I mean a proper car.”

  Marnie was about to protest on behalf of the MG when the reality of the situation struck her. “You’ve got a point there. I keep forgetting.”

  “Didn’t Ralph say he had to go to Oxford?”

  Marnie sat pondering. “I think we need a democratic decision. I’d better go and tell – I mean, discuss it – with Ralph.”

  “In that case, we need two democratic decisions,” said Anne. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Who’s going to run the office?”

  “Dolly ... and the answerphone.”

  *

  By the time they had reached the outskirts of St Albans, Marnie was glad she had relented and taken Anne with her. Leaving Dolly in charge of a substantial bowl of milk, and with instructions from Anne to keep the place clear of mice, they had set off on a circuit that Anne traced on the road atlas like a stage in a car rally. They dropped Ralph at the bus station to catch the Oxford coach. On the road to St Albans, Anne monitored their answerphone with the mobile and took occasional notes.

  “We follow signs to the abbey and hang a right at the first set of traffic lights. There’s a Shell garage on the corner.”

  “Okay.”

  “Marnie, do you want to drop me off somewhere before we get there
? I can wander round the cathedral or something. She might be more willing to talk if there are just the two of you.”

  “I was wondering about that. Let’s play it by ear.”

  “Fine. Her road’s coming up on the left.”

  Marnie turned into a pretty tree-lined street of Victorian terraced cottages, most of which had been renovated, their front doors gleaming with bright paintwork, behind tiny neat front gardens. She pulled up opposite number twenty and looked at its white window frames, its dark green door already flanked by yellow roses climbing up a trellis.

  The door was answered by a woman of about thirty. She did not look happy. Clinging tightly round her neck was a small child with a sullen expression. It shot the visitors a grumpy look and pushed its face into Judith’s neck.

  “Come in. Rosie’s had to leave early from playgroup. She’s been sick. I’ve only just got back. It was too late to tell you not to come.”

  The narrow hallway was half blocked by a push-chair, and they stepped round it. The little girl made whimpering sounds in her mother’s arms, aware that she would not be receiving undivided attention. The ground floor had been converted to one all-through living room, and the floor nearest to the front window was littered with toys and books. Judith offered chairs to her visitors and settled herself carefully on the sofa with her burden. She did not offer refreshment, and Marnie had the feeling their meeting was going to be brief.

  “It’s nice of you to see us, but I can see it isn’t a good time.”

  “Well, it’s like that with kids, especially little ones. You can never be quite sure what’s going to happen next.”

  “How old is Rosie?”

  “Three and a half.” She stroked the back of Rosie’s head.

  “She’s your only child?”

  “Yes, the one you’ve come to talk about, by implication at least.”

  “She’s a sweetie.”

  “She’s also a constant reminder of her father, looks just like him.”

  “Do you know what made her sick?”