No Secrets (MARNIE WALKER Book 6)

by Leo McNeir

  “No. So it was …” His voice petered out.

  Marnie glanced sideways at Anne who at that moment looked up and spoke.

  “I think it’s what they’d call a suspicious death.”

  It was the first time anyone had said the word death. It echoed in the space between them like a pebble dropped into a deep well. Marnie did not want the conversation to go that way. At times like that – and they had had more than their fair share of such times since they had been together – she felt an almost maternal urge to protect Anne from the horrors of the world. That thought prompted her to change the subject.

  “Anne, this business is going to get in the papers. With Charles’s position in the City, plus the fact that it concerns a woman on a boat in Little Venice, it’ll be irresistible to news editors. I wouldn’t be surprised if it makes the front page.”

  “It’ll make a change from speculating about what record will be the Christmas number one.”

  “Exactly. So I think you ought to phone your parents as soon as we’ve finished eating and let them know you’re okay. Tell them they don’t have to worry about us being involved.”

  “All right.”

  “They might want you to go home for a few days, especially as your college term is over.”

  “But, Marnie, I’ve got to be here to see Mr Bartlett on Monday morning … my statement.”

  “Ye-e-es …”

  “And there’s a load of work to catch up on in the office. With me just working part time, I’ve got to make sure I keep everything running smoothly. And then there’s my project work for college. All my books and things are here.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” Marnie looked enquiringly at her friend. “Anne, are you all right?”

  “Known better days. My real worry … I know this’ll sound odd – unkind, even – is that I don’t know how I feel about what’s happened. I’m really sorry – of course I am – but I hardly knew Barbara and I can’t quite get my reactions sorted out.”

  “It’s shock.” Ralph sounded definite. “I think you should sleep on Thyrsis tonight. We can make up the bed in the dining area.”

  “Oh no, I’ll be fine. It’s –”

  “Anne. Listen, darling. Of course you’re fine, but it won’t do you any harm to be close to us, just for tonight.”

  6

  On Sunday morning Marnie was awake before six. She sat up in bed in the darkness. It was cool in the cabin, the heating system turned down to its night setting. Outside there would be a thin crust of ice on the canal. The horror of what had happened in Little Venice hit her hard for the first time. Suspicious death could have only one meaning. Barbara had been murdered. Marnie’s stomach turned over.

  A thousand questions raced through her head, all of them variations on a theme. Why was Barbara dead, and who had killed her? Marnie became aware that she was breathing quickly. She realised that the previous day she had been somehow detached from reality. Shock. Yes, that was it.

  “Marnie, are you all right?”

  Ralph always slept longer than Marnie, but that morning there was no trace of drowsiness in the voice beside her.

  “Sorry did I disturb you? I think something must’ve woken me, a bird perhaps, or an animal moving about.”

  “It was Anne going out. She left a few minutes ago.”

  “Left?”

  “Yes. I think she was having trouble sleeping as well.”

  Marnie leaned across Ralph and tweaked the curtain over the porthole. A light was burning in the saloon on Sally Ann.

  “I’d better get up.”

  “Me too.”

  “I was wondering if I ought to contact Charles. I know the police will’ve spoken to him, but as I was going to see her …”

  “He might prefer to have some time to himself.”

  “Mm. It’s difficult to know what to do for the best. I hardly know them. He must be feeling absolutely awful.”

  “Of course.”

  “You know, Ralph, it’s only just getting through to me that Barbara must have been murdered. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “There are four possibilities.”

  “Four?”

  His voice was quiet in the dark cabin. “Natural causes … accident … suicide … murder.”

  “What about manslaughter?”

  “I think it’s just a variation on murder, a kind of legal technicality. It still means someone has killed you.”

  Marnie shuddered. “Well we can probably rule out natural causes.”

  “Not necessarily. You can’t be sure until … until an autopsy has been carried out.”

  “Then we can surely eliminate accidental death. Bruere wouldn’t have been called in for an accident, even a fatal one. He’d just arrived when we got there. I wonder how he knew …”

  “Someone must’ve called the police.”

  “Yes. So that just leaves suicide – which is out of the question – and you-know-what.”

  “Marnie, I don’t think anything can be ruled out until the facts have been established.”

  “Well, she didn’t commit suicide.” Marnie sounded almost exasperated. “They were just about to move and start a new phase in their life. You know that. Barbara was full of plans and ideas … for the house, for the boat.”

  “Marnie, as you said yourself, we didn’t know her very well. Who knows what was going on in her life?”

  “I had a fair idea.”

  “Did you really? Can you say that after meeting her on only two occasions?”

  “Mind your eyes, Ralph. I’m going to turn on the light.” Marnie reached behind her and pressed the switch. She settled back so that her face was close to Ralph’s on the pillow. “You’re probably right. But could you believe she was about to take her own life after what we’ve been planning with her these past few weeks?”

  “No. But I am saying we don’t know anything about her private life or about her past, do we?”

  Marnie gave this some thought. “I know Charles had been married before and I think he and Barbara had been together for about ten years.”

  “Was it her first marriage?”

  “I don’t know. The more I think about it, the more I realise how little I did know about her. But one thing I’m sure of, she definitely did not commit suicide. I’ve never known anyone more full of life than Barbara Taverner.”

  They jogged the short distance between Thyrsis and Sally Ann in her docking area and leapt onto the stern deck, pulling the doors open to escape the frosty morning. On board, Anne was preparing breakfast, still wearing her fleece, though the interior was warming up. The cabin smelled of fresh coffee brewing and croissants warming in the oven. The radio was playing softly, baroque music on Classic FM, not the news on Radio Four. Downlighters in the ceiling cast a cheerful glow in the saloon. Sally Ann was an oasis of peace and harmony whatever was happening in the outside world.

  “Good timing.” Anne smiled at them. “Glad to see your radar’s still functioning.”

  Marnie kissed her on the cheek. “You’re up early. How are you?”

  “I’m all right. At least I was until I turned on the radio and got the six o’clock news.”

  “Barbara?”

  “They were full of it, the whole story.”

  “Poor Charles,” Marnie muttered.

  Ralph agreed “He’ll get no peace now, at least not until they’ve got to the bottom of it.”

  Marnie put the cafetière on the table. “Anne, did they say anything substantial, or was it just the usual speculation?”

  “DCI Bruere read out a statement.”

  “Let me guess,” said Ralph. “… ongoing enquiry … appeal for any witnesses to come forward … too soon to give any facts at this moment in time?”

  “They always like to say that,” Marnie chipped in. “… at this moment in time.”

  Anne nodded. “That’s right. You got it almost word-perfect.”

  “Did he add anything else?”

  “Yes. Br
uere said they were treating it as murder.”

  Shortly after eight they received a phone call from the police. After a slow breakfast Anne had gone off through the spinney to the office barn to change and prepare herself for the day. Marnie had gone to her desk, and Ralph had set off on his morning walk along the towpath. They had agreed to spend the morning clearing up matters remaining from the previous week, while Anne would buckle down to the projects that had been set by the college for the Christmas vacation. Marnie, normally so focused on her work, felt listless and unsettled, unable to cleanse her mind of the thoughts that had troubled her in the night. It was almost a relief when the phone call blew away her plans for the day.

  “Marnie Walker, hallo.”

  “This is Detective Sergeant Cuthbert, Metropolitan Police. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  That will depend on what you have to say to me, was Marnie’s initial thought. “Go ahead. What can I do for you?”

  “DCI Bruere has asked me to contact you in connection with the case in Little Venice. You spoke to him yesterday.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten.”

  “I understand you agreed to give a statement at your local police station.”

  “It’s all arranged. I’m going there on Monday morning.”

  “The chief inspector wonders if instead of that you might be able to come to see him in London. Would today be possible?”

  “Today? What could I tell you that’s so urgent? I hardly knew Barbara. And I haven’t the remotest idea about anything that might’ve happened in Little Venice.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, Mrs Walker, but there have been developments in the case.”

  “You’re treating Barbara’s death as murder, yes, I heard.”

  “That’s correct. And there are one or two matters on which the DCI would like to talk to you. That’s why he’d prefer it if you could give your statement down here.”

  Marnie had been adamant that Ralph and Anne remain at Glebe Farm while she travelled to London, though Ralph insisted on driving her to the railway station and Anne announced that she was tagging along to ride shotgun. DS Cuthbert had offered to have Marnie met at Euston station by a police car, but she had declined and taken a taxi.

  Bruere greeted her with a handshake. “Good of you to come, Mrs Walker, and at such short notice.”

  “That’s okay. I’m happy to help if I can. At least this time I’m neither a victim nor a suspect.”

  Bruere gestured her to a chair and grinned lopsidedly. “Yes, makes a pleasant change.”

  As she sat down Marnie noticed that the woman police officer who had shown her in took a seat in the corner and pulled out a notepad.

  “You came to see Mrs Taverner yesterday. That was for a business meeting?”

  “Yes. I’m – perhaps I should say I was – doing the redecoration of their house. They planned to move to the village where I live, to the old rectory.” Marnie paused, realising that for ever afterwards she would only be able to think of the house by that name.

  “So why had you come to London to see her? Would it not be more customary to meet at the house to discuss it?”

  “Well, yes, normally. There were a number of reasons. Time was one factor. Barbara was going to set off to bring the boat up to our area.”

  Bruere frowned. “At this time of year?”

  “There’s what she described as a window. There are no lock closures on the southern Grand Union canal until after new year.”

  “Even so, that’s a tough undertaking for a woman, isn’t it? All that way in the freezing cold, doing everything by herself?”

  “She was a highly capable boatwoman.”

  “How capable?”

  “Very experienced. She won prizes for boat handling, a real expert in anyone’s book. And she had tremendous energy, a zest for life. She was a strong character. If anyone could do that journey single-handed, Barbara could.”

  “Could you do it, Mrs Walker?”

  “I’ve done that trip solo – a couple of years ago – though that was in the summer.”

  “Do you need technical knowledge to run a boat on a journey like that? Are there mechanical things you have to know about?”

  “Plenty of women are capable of running narrowboats, Mr Bruere.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Presumably you’d consider Mrs Taverner one of them?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure whether Barbara was technically-minded.” Marnie reflected, conjuring up an image of Barbara’s hands, those fingernails, manicured and painted, those slim tapering fingers. “Not sure at all.”

  “Perhaps there’s nothing to it … switch on the engine and go, like driving a car?” Bruere prompted.

  “No, there’s more to it than that. You need to make sure the stern gland is kept greased after a day’s travelling, and the rudder tube needs greasing at certain times. I like to check the engine oil every morning on a long journey, and it’s a good idea to keep an eye on the batteries. On a narrowboat you’re dependent on the mechanical systems. Sorry, I’m going on a bit.”

  “No, it’s interesting, informative. And do you see Mrs Taverner down in the engine room – or whatever you have on a barge – dealing with all those things? Do you see her as a kind of grease monkey?”

  Marnie shook her head emphatically. “No! But … I mean …”

  Bruere lowered his voice. “Neither do we. Those dainty hands didn’t strike us as mechanic’s hands. I couldn’t imagine them holding an oily rag, can you? Barbara Taverner was no Tugboat Annie, was she? Even her boating clothes had designer labels.”

  “I know what you mean, Mr Bruere. But where’s all this leading? I thought I was supposed to be giving you a statement about yesterday.”

  “You are … in a way. But we’re enquiring into a suspicious death –”

  “You said it was a murder enquiry.”

  “So it is, the murder of a woman of style and fashion. Who better to help us understand such a woman than someone like you, Mrs Walker?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t see the similarities, surely. You’re both smart, attractive, fashion-conscious and you both like canal barges. It’s an unusual mixture, don’t you think?”

  Marnie sat back in the chair. “Well, since you put it like that … and they’re called narrowboats, not barges.”

  Bruere shrugged. “They still have diesel engines and all those tubes and glands and things that have to be greased all the time. Do you get your hands dirty, or does someone else look after that side of things for you, a man perhaps?”

  Marnie smiled reflectively. “It’s no mystery. When I do the maintenance, I put on latex gloves. But that’s not a feminine foible. The mechanics who maintain my car at the garage wear them too. Dirty fingernails and ingrained engine oil aren’t acceptable to anyone these days, except dyed-in-the-wool petrolheads.”

  “I see you keep your fingernails fairly short, Mrs Walker.”

  “It’s more practical like that.” She stopped abruptly. He had a point. Barbara’s nails made no concession to the mechanical demands of a narrowboat, none at all. In that moment she understood the purpose of the interview. Bruere was watching her. “That thing you said about the aftershave … You think she was travelling with a man, presumably not with Charles.”

  “You told us he hadn’t made journeys on the boat for a long time, Mrs Walker.”

  “That’s what Barbara said to me.”

  “You got on well together?”

  “Yes, I’d say so.” Marnie knew where this was leading.

  “You had things in common.”

  “She was employing me to handle a couple of projects. We both had boats.”

  “Similar styles, similar tastes, similar interests,” Bruere counted them on his fingers.

  “I would’ve said we were rather different in many respects, but I get your point.”

  “You liked her company?”

  “Yes.”r />
  “You chatted about things other than just the projects. Did you say projects in the plural?”

  “She wanted me to do a refurbishment of the boat as well as the house.”

  “But you didn’t only talk about work. Perhaps you chatted about other things, over a cup of coffee?”

  “To some extent.”

  “Did she talk about her private life?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean, Mrs Walker.”

  “Chief inspector, I had only met Barbara in person on two occasions, once in Knightly St John with her husband, once in London, alone. We were getting to know each other. She was a good client, asked intelligent questions, gave sensible answers. She was lively, positive, knew what she wanted. In time I think we could’ve become friends. But we never got that time.”

  “Nevertheless –”

  “She never confided in me about private matters, certainly never told me of any other man in her life, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Bruere sat back and folded his arms. “You’re sure she never dropped a hint that she might be planning to take along a … companion, someone to help crew the boat … that kind of thing?”

  “No.”

  “All right. But I’d like you to think carefully about that. It could be important to our enquiry if you remembered any mention – no matter how casual – that anyone else might be travelling with her.”

  “You’re certain the shaving things weren’t her husband’s?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “So Charles knows of your suspicions.”

  “Nobody knows at this stage, Mrs Walker. And I must ask you to keep the matter totally confidential.”

  “I’ve already spoken about it with Ralph, and Anne was there when you mentioned the shaving cream yesterday.”

  “It must go no further.”

  “They’re neither of them gossips, chief inspector.”

  “Good.” He suddenly changed tack. “Tell me about boats, Mrs Walker … narrowboats.”

  “It’s a big subject.”

  “Do they have to have regular checks like the MOT for cars?”