by Leo McNeir
“Could be anything.” Judith shrugged, and Rosie tightened her grip. “Not so tight, poppet. Mummy can’t breathe if you do that. Do you want some juice? Eh?”
The little girl made no reply but clung on, turning to eye the intruders with curiosity and suspicion. Marnie could see this was going to be a waste of time.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t introduce Anne. She works with me, training to be a designer.”
“Hi,” said Judith.
“Hallo.”
Anne slipped down from the armchair and moved across the floor to where the toys were strewn. She picked up a bear and examined it.
“Good morning, bear. What’s your name?”
From the other side of the room came an indistinct murmur.
“Pardon?” said Anne to the bear. “You’ll have to speak up. I couldn’t hear you.”
Another murmur that dissolved into a giggle. Judith and Marnie watched Anne as she picked up a ragdoll.
“Good morning, ragdoll. What’s your name?”
This time the reply was clearer. “Rosie.”
“Rosie?” Anne echoed. “I know a little girl called Rosie. Have you got a friend called Jim?”
“No, silly!” A short laugh this time.
Rosie let go of her mother and stood uncertainly beside her for a few seconds, contemplating Anne who was now picking up all the dolls and teddies and asking them their names. It proved irresistible. Rosie walked across and sat down beside her new friend. A big girl. Together they began lining the toys up in a row, Anne asking questions about them in a quiet voice.
“She’s a treasure,” Judith said under her breath.
“Yes. She’s a lovely little girl.”
“No, I mean your ... er ...”
“Anne,” said Marnie. “Anne with an ‘e’.”
*
Ralph had the laptop on his knee as the coach trundled steadily through the countryside towards Oxford. He worked through the address book, systematically selecting every person who had any connection with the news media: journalists, broadcasters, writers and academic colleagues who might have useful links of their own.
As he cut and pasted to set up a new list, he tried to work out how he might approach them to elicite the kind of information he needed without revealing his intentions. He tried various possible lines.
In my new role as Visiting Professor I’m needing to build up my contacts in the media ...
I thought it would make sense if I put together a directory of press officers, PR people, maybe even journalists and editors ...
My publisher wants to set up a media and PR database for issuing press notices about my new book and it seemed like a good time to revise the whole thing ...
The tricky part was managing to include the Globe in his line-up. None of this was easy. He looked out of the window and thought he caught a glimpse of a canal in the distance, the tell-tale black and white paint of the balance beams of a lock beside a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. He had to force into the back of his mind the heretical idea that Marnie’s plan was not going to succeed. Even Marnie could not work miracles.
*
The tea party was going well. All the bears were lined up on one side of the ‘table’, with the dolls facing them. Anne was getting to know their names, but each time she made a mistake Rosie laughed out loud.
Marnie had declined the offer of tea and encouraged Judith to talk, fearing that the interview might be terminated prematurely if Rosie’s sickness suddenly returned. Judith had been sorry to give up her job with the BBC, and had settled into a pleasant if humdrum existence. Her husband lectured in media studies at a college and was a ‘wonderful father’. But Marnie sensed a regret in her and had a fair idea of its cause. She wondered if it would be a problem.
“Do you feel able to speak about what happened?” she said in a low voice.
Judith laughed gently. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of Victorian fallen woman. Mind you, I suppose that’s what I was.” She laughed again. “Do you know those women who always go for the wrong man? Well, guess what!”
“Tell me about it,” said Marnie dryly.
“You too? Well, I bet your judgment of men isn’t as bad as mine. I’m hopeless. Would you believe I used to have a thing about Paul Pinder?”
“The journalist on the radio?”
“It was when he was doing spots on news programmes. I was a researcher, he was an investigative journalist and I knew he’d go far. I had a real crush. It was stupid, so adolescent.”
“I’ve seen pictures of him. He’s really good-looking, charming too. Who could blame you for that?”
Judith stared at Marnie. “You don’t know.”
“Obviously not. What don’t I know?”
“He’s very good-looking, very charming ... and very gay.”
“Ah, difficult,” Marnie conceded. “Wait a minute. He can’t be.”
“Believe me, Marnie. I’ve been there, got the ungroped T-shirt.”
“But didn’t he do that programme about closet gays? Wasn’t that him?”
“He’d say he was just doing his job. Anyway, attack’s always the best form of defence, isn’t it?”
“You’re sure about that, Judith?” Marnie was sceptical. “You don’t think he was just fobbing you off?”
“Because he thought I had thick ankles or my boobs were too small? No. He’s a regular at the Pink Flamingo. You must’ve heard of it.”
“Gay club in Soho?”
“That’s the one. He looks great in make-up.”
“I see.”
Judith looked across at Rosie. “Still, at least there was no risk of an accident happening.”
“No,” Marnie agreed. “Rather unlikely in the circumstances.”
“I’m sure you know I had this thing with Tim, another example of my lack of judgment with men. I thought it was going somewhere, had my little accident.” She nodded in the direction of Rosie. “You know the rest, I presume. Martin came along on his white charger and whisked me off to the altar, made an honest woman of me ... almost. But then you’re not really here to talk about me, are you?”
“I need contacts,” Marnie said simply. “I don’t want to go into the details, but I have to be able to get through to people in the news business in senior positions.”
“Like Tim Rodgers?”
“I’m mainly interested in the newspapers, though you’ve made me think I ought to look further afield. Obviously I wouldn’t cause any awkwardness for you, or any of your friends, present or past. I promise you that.”
“If by friends you mean Tim ...”
“The people I want to approach are big fish in the national press. I need to get through to them so they’ll take me seriously and not just ignore what I have to say.”
“You’d need some pretty big bait to lure them, Marnie. Contrary to popular opinion, a lot of the news people are pretty decent. But there are some tough cookies, too, and they won’t let themselves be used. You don’t stand a chance unless you’ve got a big story. What have you got?”
“It’s about political sleaze.”
“It’d have to be very high level to be newsworthy.”
“High enough to make the front page, I think. It’d be a scoop. I’m pretty sure of that.”
“Are you trying to expose someone in the government?”
“It’s not as straightforward as that. I’m trying to fight back for someone who’s been damaged, whose family’s been damaged.”
“How badly?”
“Fatally.”
“So who’s your target?”
Marnie looked across the room at the child pouring an imaginary cup of tea for a teddy bear, asking if it wanted a cake or a biscuit. The bear, supported by Anne, was making comical efforts to pick up its cup and drink. The little girl giggled contentedly.
Marnie said quietly, “I’m not sure I want to get you involved in all this.”
“Are you scared of the consequences?” Judith
said.
“Yes.”
“Who for?”
“All of us, I think. But at least I’ve made a choice. If I get really scared, I can back out. If I get you involved, it could harm you as well. I wouldn’t want that, obviously.”
Judith looked her steadily in the eye. “Who are you going after, Marnie?”
“Do you know ... Jeremy Hawksby?”
“The Globe? Christ!”
“Look, I’d understand if you –”
“This is the Leyton-Brown thing, isn’t it?”
“If I said yes?”
“You want to defend him?” She paused. “So there’s more to it.”
“I think there could be,” said Marnie.
Judith nodded. “There usually is. The news distorts everything one way or another. But how did you get involved with him?”
“By chance. It’s a long story.”
“What do you plan to do about Hawksby?”
“I’ve already told you more than I intended, Judith.”
“Does it involve a woman ... or a man?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just want to know how much you know about Hawksby, and how you think you can use it.”
“It’s a woman.”
Across the room, Rosie staggered to her feet and ran to her mother.
“Potty!”
Judith smiled wearily and got up. “Here we go. I’ll have to deal with this before we have an accident. She’s just getting the hang of it.”
“Of course.” Marnie was reluctant to leave, but she stood up and knew the conversation would go no further that day.
“Potty, mummy!”
“Come on, darling.” To Marnie she said, “Let me have a think about what you’ve told me. I’ll try to help you, but I hope you know what you’re doing.”
*
They set off for their rendez-vous with Andrew on the Wendover arm, Anne navigating for Marnie through the St. Albans one-way system in the lunchtime traffic.
“How much of the conversation did you manage to hear, Anne?”
“Not a lot. The bears kept asking for more tea and biscuits.”
Marnie smiled. “That was brilliant. Well, I think Judith might help. At least she seemed willing enough, which surprised me in a way.”
“Why?”
“She’s still carrying a torch for Rosie’s father.”
“For Tim Rodgers?”
“I’m almost certain of it. And I’m sure she regards us at best as bloody fools, at worst as amateurs in a tough world.”
“Well, Marnie ...”
“I know, don’t say it.”
They picked up the road signs to Tring, and on arrival there Marnie pulled over to phone Ralph and put him in the picture. They completed their run up to Marsworth and walked the towpath until they located the boats. Andrew was polishing a brass mushroom vent on Totteridge, keeping a lookout. He renewed his apologies, but Marnie waved them aside.
Anthony dropped a bag into the boot of the car. He seemed a different man, moving confidently, playing his role with conviction. And he certainly looked the part in his jeans and sweatshirt, his cropped hair and beard.
When they were ready to leave, Marnie hugged Andrew and Kate tightly.
“What about Tony’s boat?” said Andrew.
“Good question.”
“You’re welcome to leave it at the yard, if you like.”
Marnie preferred moving targets. “Thanks, but I think I’d better shift it. The question is, where? And when? Can I get back to you on that?”
“Why don’t we move it for you?” said Kate. “We’re more flexible than you are.”
“Oh, I don’t like to –”
“No trouble,” said Andrew. “Least we can do. We’ll load everything on board again and get it to ... where do you want it?”
“Well, back to Knightly, I suppose.”
“How soon?”
“Doesn’t matter. Whenever you could manage it.”
“Leave it to us, Marnie. We won’t let you down.”
*
Finding the right road cross-country back to Northamptonshire took up all the attention of Marnie and Anne, as they headed north. There was little scope for conversation, and Anthony sat in the back letting his companions take the lead. He had learnt that new habit in recent weeks, though it still seemed strange. They pulled into a garage for fuel before rejoining the motorway, and Marnie came back to the car carrying sandwiches and cold drinks. They ate as they travelled.
Cruising on a main road, Anthony asked where they were going. “Or is that on a need-to-know basis?”
“We’re going to a safe house,” Marnie called over her shoulder.
“MI5 or KGB?” Anthony asked flippantly.
“Ne nado gavarit nepravdu dietiam, tovarich,” came the reply.
“Dasvidanya,” Anne added, trying to keep a straight face and nearly choking on her sandwich.
There was silence from the back seat. Marnie looked in the rear-view mirror and smiled.
“You should see your face, Anthony.”
“Jesus. I never know what to expect from you two. Nothing would surprise me.”
“Sit back and enjoy the ride, and I’ll tell you where we’re taking you. I guarantee you won’t believe it.” And you won’t much like it, either, she thought.
*
For the last few miles they travelled almost in silence, and Marnie could guess why. The only sounds came from Anne.
“Main road up ahead, T-junction, go left.”
“Turning off to the right, probably marked ‘town centre’, about two miles.”
“It’s after the traffic lights, first or second on the right.”
Marnie parked opposite Randall’s drop-in centre. Behind her, Anthony said nothing. They got out and took his bag from the boot. He was so pre-occupied he let Marnie carry it across the road. On the doorstep she turned to him.
“Okay?”
“It’s a doss house, isn’t it?”
“It’s a safe house, like I said. Just think of it like that.”
“Has it really come to this?” His face looked blank.
“It’s because it’s what it is that makes it perfect, Anthony, but if you’ve got any better ideas, tell me now.“
He cleared his throat. “No. Let’s ... get on with it.”
Randall was already waiting for them in the reception area. Anthony blinked at the bright cream walls and glossy white paintwork. Randall held out a hand to his new guest. “Glad to have you here, er, what do we call you?”
“Ant –”
“Tony,” Marnie interjected.
“Yes,” said Anthony Leyton-Brown MP. “Tony will do fine.”
He could not help turning his head to take in the spacious hallway and the staircase curving away with a polished mahogany banister. Over the door to the reception office hung a sign in bold letters: WELCOME.
On the wall beside the office was a framed print of Holman Hunt’s painting, The Light of the World, above it another sign, a quotation:
Jesus said
Behold I stand at the door and knock
If any man hear my voice and open the door
I will come in to him and will sup with him and he with me
Anthony half opened his mouth as if to speak, but only drew in some short breaths. He blinked several times. Randall put a hand on his shoulder and guided him towards the stairs, picking up the overnight bag as he went.
“Let’s get you settled in. We can save the guided tour till later.”
Marnie and Anne watched him go, walking slowly beside Randall, like a wounded man being led away from a battlefield.
Mounting the stairs, Randall called back to them. “Why don’t you get a cup of tea in the sitting room? We’ll join you shortly.”
Thriving had been the word used by Angela Hemingway, and they saw what she meant. The sitting room, the size of a small hall, was almost full, with most low chairs occupied, and one or two
tables free. At others, guests were sitting chatting or playing board games. Marnie found a table in the corner and went to get tea, leaving Anne to mind their places.
Anne became aware that a girl was looking at her, not much older than herself, sitting alone at the next table. She smiled and nodded at her, and the girl nodded back.
“We’re visiting Randall,” Anne volunteered. “Er, Mr Hughes, the Rural Dean.”
“Randall,” the girl said. She had a small crescent-shaped scar on her chin. “You coming to stay?”
“No. We’ve got a friend who’s here for a bit. Temporary.”
“We’re all temporary.”
“Yes.”
“Haven’t got a fag, have you?”
Anne shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t smoke.”
“I’m down to me last one, been saving it.”
Anne glanced up at the No Smoking signs on the wall, and the girl read her mind.
“You have to go outside. They’re very strict here.”
“Strict?” Anne said. “I thought they were easy-going about most things.”
“Yeah. It’s okay. But not smoking ... smoke alarms everywhere. One night one old bloke nearly burned himself alive having a secret fag in bed. The alarms went off and we was out on the pavement in two minutes.”
“Did he get hurt?”
“No, well, not much. He got a fright, though.”
“Did he get into trouble?”
“Nah. He should’ve got chucked out, but Randall’s soft. He lined us all up and gave us a lecture on what could’ve happened, as if we didn’t know.”
“Better than waking up dead, I suppose,” said Anne.
“Yeah.” The girl began to get up. “Not much point asking you for a light, is there?”
“No. Sorry.” An afterthought came to her. “Hey! Wait a minute.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out the matches that she had picked up in the restaurant by Tower Bridge. “I’ve got these. You can have them if you want.”
The girl took the book of matches. She turned them over to read the address on the flip side, and sat down again, looking appraisingly at Anne.
“You from London, then?” She looked significantly at the cover on the matches.
