by Leo McNeir
This was high-stakes gambling. Had Barbara not cared about losing the life of ease and luxury that Charles provided? On reflection, that answer was easy as well. She never thought Charles would find out. She was too clever to give the game away.
But that was no concern of Marnie’s. The question now was what to tell Charles, if anything.
Anne walked up to the shop in the late morning to pay for last week’s newspapers, overlooked in all the movement at the weekend. She was glad of the exercise, the fresh air to clear her head after three hours of non-stop studying.
Molly Appleton looked up from the counter and called across to her husband, Richard, immured in the glass box that was the domain of the sub-postmaster.
“Look who it is, ten minutes too late. Hallo, Anne. Guess who was in here just now?”
“Hi. No idea, Brad Pitt, Keanu Reeves? Am I warm?”
“Ronny!”
“Oh? I thought he was away on his gap year.”
“You mean you didn’t know he was coming back? Perhaps he wanted it to be a surprise for you. Hope I haven’t spoilt it.”
Anne’s expression betrayed her bewilderment. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well, you two being sort of friends, and him being so keen on you. I thought you’d have been in touch while he was in Canada.”
“Oh, I see.”
Molly raised a hand to her mouth. “Have I spoken out of turn? I am sorry, Anne.”
“That’s all right. I haven’t really had any contact with Ronny since last summer.”
“I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you.”
“Right.”
Anne paid the paper bill and said a cheery good-bye. She did not feel cheery. Had Ronny Cope been talking about her to the Appletons? The truth was, she had no desire to see him. They had parted as less than friends the previous year after a row in which he more or less accused her of leading him on and being frigid when he tried to get friendly.
But it occurred to her that it would be best to see him before he had a chance to make any false assumptions about their non-relationship. The element of surprise could be useful in this. If Ronny was at home, he would be alone. His father was a commuter, his mother worked mornings, his brother would be at school. The small “executive development’ known as Martyrs Close was like a ghost town at this time of day. Anne would pop in, say a friendly word or two and pop out; cordial, neighbourly, but nothing more.
Martyrs Close was on the other side of the church, and Anne turned smartly in at the lych gate to take the path through the churchyard.
Back down the high street, Molly Appleton was taking the opportunity to check the shop’s window display – unchanged in living memory – and watched Anne veer off towards the church. With a look of satisfaction she went back inside and gave a knowing wink to her husband.
Ralph sat on the corner of Marnie’s desk and read the list of names that she had printed from the computer. He had come to the office barn for his morning coffee and found Marnie on the phone to a boatyard near Blisworth. She was negotiating for a slot in their schedule and, while waiting for the owner to consult his programme, she had signalled to Ralph to pick up the print-out. A lucky cancellation made it possible for the yard to take Perfidia in about two weeks, and they could move her up any time they wished. The yard would black the hull and do whatever was required to the topsides. Marnie scribbled a note for Anne to put in the diary and looked up at Ralph.
“We can take Perfidia up to Blisworth the weekend after next.”
“That’s the Oxford Conference weekend, remember?”
“You’re there for the whole weekend?”
Ralph nodded. “Starting with dinner on the Friday evening.”
“Then it’s either a solo trip or I take Anne.”
“Wild horses …” Ralph murmured enigmatically.
“Yeah. There are some long pounds between locks. Anne can get on with her college work while we travel.” Marnie pointed at Gerard’s list of names. “Do you know any of them?”
“Well, Adamson of course is your classic captain of industry. Accountant by training, I think, made his name over the past twenty years as an asset-stripper.”
“How does that work?”
“Case study. Dolman and Yates, struggling in the early eighties. Adamson went in as special adviser, got half the board removed, sold off two or three subsidiary companies for the redevelopment value of their sites, got the firm refocused and became chairman. Golden handshake after three years, made a couple of million. On to the next challenge.”
“Onward and upward,” said Marnie. “Better than going bust. I’m impressed.”
“Unlike the company’s employees.”
“Oh?” Marnie prepared herself to become unimpressed.
“Production was moved to the Far East, so most people lost their jobs. Adamson refused to negotiate reasonable redundancy terms. Stripped of their powers, the unions couldn’t do a thing about it.”
“I wonder what Barbara saw in him.”
“The same as she saw in Charles, no doubt: wealth and power, not bad aphrodisiacs.”
Marnie frowned. “Charles isn’t like that. He’s not that kind of businessman, is he?”
“I doubt it. He made a number of shrewd moves during his career. Got an MBA from Cranfield, put him on the so-called fast track. But he’s more the dependable sort, the safe pair of hands. That’s what they really like best in the City.”
“That’s what Barbara liked, too. In fact, I suspect it’s what most women like.” Ralph smiled. Marnie continued. “What about the other names on the list?”
“Don’t know Stuart. Brent we both know, of course: affable, presentable sort of chap. But Wainwright, that’s something I would never have expected.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? It’s like finding out she’s been involved with Picasso.”
“He’s not that famous, Ralph!” Marnie exclaimed.
“Hockney, then.”
Marnie raised an eyebrow. “Bit unlikely?”
“You know what I mean. Weren’t you surprised?”
“Yes … and no. It’s wealthy business people who can afford to commission the best artists. I must’ve seen the portrait in their house at Templars’ Wharf.”
Ralph frowned. “I didn’t think he painted portraits, just landscapes and abstracts.” He stood up and walked over to the kitchen area with his mug. “The thing is, Marnie. What do you intend doing with this information?”
Anne shut the gate in the churchyard wall behind her. It felt strange being in Martyrs Close again after an absence of several months. For Anne, Ronny had only ever been a casual friend, someone roughly her own age who lived in the area. Since coming to Knightly St John she had had one real relationship, but that was brief and unlikely ever to be revived. Ronny had assumed more than he should. Anne was going to act quickly and decisively to set matters straight.
She glanced from side to side at the houses as she passed by. Ghost town just about summed it up. The estate of a dozen or so detached houses, each set back from the street, standing on its own substantial plot, felt like a suburb, completely different from the rest of the village.
Anne took a deep breath as she approached the Copes’ house. Ten minutes maximum, then home to Glebe Farm, a sandwich for lunch at noon and back to her project work. Turning onto the drive she noticed that the gravel needed raking. Mr Cope had left in a hurry, running late to catch the 7.22, no doubt. Everything else was neat and trimmed.
She rang the doorbell and while waiting for an answer, she bent down and righted the milk bottle holder that was lying on its side in the porch. Nothing stirred in the house. Her journey had been wasted. Ronny had not come home after all. Reaching out to press the bell one last time, she saw daylight at the edge of the door. She pushed it and it swung inwards. Something was wrong. The churned-up gravel, the knocked-over bottle holder, the open door. Another deep breath.
Stepping into the hallway, An
ne stopped and listened. She could hear only her pulse racing. Digging into a back pocket, she pulled out her mobile. Before moving further into the house, she opened the front door wide. Noiselessly she looked into the nearest room – the executive through-lounge – and was surprised to see the television and video machine on their stand in the middle of the carpet. An armchair had been pushed aside and on it was stacked the hi-fi and a pile of CDs and videos.
A sound somewhere in the house made Anne freeze. She was not alone. Understanding what had happened, she pressed three nines on the mobile, tip-toed to the glazed dividing screen at the end of the lounge and eased one half of it apart. The dining room was untouched. She crept across to the kitchen door and peeped round it. The kitchen was in chaos. A small TV stood on the breakfast table that was askew in the centre. The workbenches were a mass of broken and upturned bottles and jars, one work area covered in flour as if a snowstorm had struck.
Anne hit the send button on the mobile. The call was answered at once.
“Emergency. Which service, please?”
“Police.” Anne’s eyes were attracted by something on the floor behind the table and she squatted down. “And ambulance. Please come quickly.”
She gave the details of name, address and location, and described what had happened. Her hands were trembling. All the time she was struggling to keep her composure. When she finished the call, promising that she would wait at the scene, she knelt down beside Ronny.
“Oh, my God …”
Marnie sat alone in the office. Ralph had gone back to Thyrsis to analyse some statistics, and Anne would return from the shop in the next few minutes. She read the list of Barbara’s lovers once again, asking herself if somewhere on the page she was looking at the name of her killer. If she really had so many, perhaps there might be others. Other lovers, other suspects. Another life. And Charles, where did he fit into all this?
Marnie swivelled in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. Old beams, ancient oak, pitted and uneven, raised there centuries earlier by men whose lives were less tormented. But perhaps not. A young woman had once hanged herself from one of those beams.
Marnie shook herself mentally and came back to the present. What was she going to do with the list? What should she tell Charles? It could only add to his suffering to delve into Barbara’s involvement with these other men. What had Gerard said? Between lovers there were … no secrets. But in a marriage some things were best left untold. Perhaps it should stay that way.
The phone rang, and Marnie swivelled round to pick it up. It was Anne.
A light on the instrument panel showed that one of the car doors was not properly shut. Marnie paid it no heed as she gunned the Discovery up the field track, bumping and bouncing on the hard ridges, her foot heavy on the pedal. She was steering with one hand, the other groping to plug in the seat belt between gear changes. Beside her on the passenger seat lay the first aid box that she had grabbed from the cupboard immediately on putting down the phone. Anne’s attempt at speaking calmly had barely concealed her anxiety.
Reaching the field gate, Marnie snatched second gear, keeping the car rolling and bucketing out onto the empty road. It was little more than twenty metres to Martyrs Close, and she treated the manoeuvre as one extended right-hand corner, throwing the wheel over, all four wheels biting into the tarmac as she kept on the power. The first houses came into view, and she slowed, realising that she had never been to the Copes’ house and was unsure which one it was.
Marnie cursed under her breath as she found she had left her mobile back in the office. A farcical thought came into her mind. She saw herself knocking on doors, asking if by any chance they had been burgled and had a young man lying on the kitchen floor, possibly dying. Then she saw the gravel. Deep grooves had been gouged into it by a vehicle speeding away. The front door stood wide open. Marnie braked heavily, seized the first aid kit and leapt out, not bothering to push the door shut behind her. She raced into the hall.
“In here!” Anne called out from the rear of the house.
Marnie shot forward just as the phone started ringing on the hall table. She ignored it and pressed on towards the kitchen. In the doorway she paused for a millisecond to take in the scene. Anne was kneeling beside Ronny whose face was the same colour as the flour that covered half the room. She had rolled some tea towels to make a pillow for his head and was holding his hand. He lay ominously still. Marnie dropped to her knees and touched Ronny’s forehead. It felt cold and damp. She reached for his wrist and began searching for a pulse.
“I ought to know more about what to do in an emergency. Has he been like this the whole time?”
“Yeah.” Anne’s voice was strangulated. She cleared her throat. “Since I found him. I tried to check his pulse, but there was nothing.”
Marnie moved her hand from Ronny’s wrist to the side of his neck. His head rolled. Things were not looking good.
“How long before the ambulance gets here? Did they say?”
“Very soon. She didn’t give me a time.”
“We need to keep him warm.” Marnie stood up, scouring the room for inspiration. “The airing cupboard!”
She ran out, and Anne heard her bounding up the stairs. She started in panic. Could the burglar still be in the house? She was on the brink of calling out a warning when Marnie scudded back down the staircase and burst into the kitchen holding a bundle of towels. She unfolded them to reveal two large white bath sheets, which she spread over Ronny, tucking them round his shoulders. They looked like a shroud. The phone started ringing again.
“Did you give them the house number?”
Anne shook her head. “Just my mobile.”
They caught a snatch of sound somewhere far off. A siren.
“Come on!” Marnie breathed.
They ignored the phone. There was the siren again. Or was it another one, a different tone? Marnie and Anne felt helpless and inadequate. Both resolved separately to learn more about first aid. The phone stopped ringing. Suddenly the siren was very near. A vehicle pulled up hard outside. Doors banged. Running footsteps on gravel and in the hall.
Marnie shouted. “We’re in the kitchen back here.”
Two men in uniform rushed in. Police. Marnie stood up to explain. Before she could speak, the first officer gestured at her.
“Mrs Walker, can you move your car out of the way. We need more room for when the ambulance gets here.”
Marnie headed off without a word. The phone started up again. She climbed into the Discovery, surprised to find she had left the engine running, and parked a short way along the street. Jogging back to the house, it struck her as curious that the policeman had called her by name. She reached the drive at the same time as the ambulance and stood aside while the driver reversed towards the front door. His colleague had already jumped out and was walking purposefully into the house carrying a bag, the word Paramedic emblazoned on his luminous jacket.
The ambulance stopped, the driver leapt out and rushed to open the rear doors. He pulled out a stretcher trolley and positioned it at the front of the house before going inside. Marnie followed him slowly, unsure of what she should do. While she was waiting in the hall, Anne came out. They stood together, superfluous now that the experts had arrived.
“Any change?” Marnie asked quietly.
Anne shook her head. The phone started ringing on the table in front of them. Marnie picked it up. It was cordless, and she walked towards the front porch as she spoke.
“Hallo?”
“Who is this?” A woman, her voice fraught and shrill.
“Marnie Walker. Is that Mrs Cope?”
“What’s going on?”
“Well, er …”
“What’s happening?” It was almost a scream. “Tell me what’s happening!”
“It looks as if your house has been burgled, or rather that someone has attempted –”
“Why is an ambulance there?”
The ambulance? How did she know? Of cou
rse. Across the street a curtain was twitching.
“It seems that Ronny may have disturbed the burglar and –”
“Is he all right? What’s happened to him?”
“The paramedics are with him now.”
On cue, one of the men rushed out and pulled the trolley into the house. Marnie saw Anne step back into the lounge to leave the hall clear.
“Has Ronny been hurt? Speak to me!”
“I think they’re taking him to hospital to … to get him the proper attention.”
“Hospital? He’s been injured … how badly?”
“I can’t be sure.”
“Where did he say he was hurt?”
“Mrs Cope, look, at the moment, it’s not straightforward.”
“What do you mean? Didn’t he tell you what was wrong?”
“He’s … he’s not able to speak at present.”
“What are you talking about? Oh, no.”
The stretcher rolled past and the men loaded Ronny quickly into the ambulance and slammed the doors. One of them stayed inside with Ronny while the other ran to the front and jumped into the driving seat. The ambulance was on the move in a second, blue lights revolving on the roof. Turning onto the road, the siren began wailing. Marnie was aware of an urgent voice coming from the phone. Anne was escorted out by one of the policemen. She was holding her face in her hands, watching the tail of the ambulance disappearing round the corner, her expression desolate.
If she had not been so sick with worry Marnie would have smiled. It was the typical British response to any emergency. A pot of tea. Marnie had phoned Ralph as she and Anne left Martyrs Close, and the kettle was boiling before they reached the office barn.
Anne told her story, sitting with the mug of tea clasped in both hands, thin and anxious, looking younger than her age, vulnerable like a refugee. Ralph was just telling her that she might have saved Ronny’s life when they heard tyres crunching on the gravel in the courtyard. Marnie looked out to see a familiar grey Vauxhall outside the farmhouse. DCI Bartlett and DS Marriner were making one of their visits.
