by Leo McNeir
So what was the purpose of the whispered message that set it apart from the rest? Gone was the conversational tone, the banter, the assertiveness, the air of independence. Here was a direct expression of tenderness, the kind of language that Marnie herself might use in intimate moments with Ralph. What had Ralph called it? The L word.
Thyrsis rocked gently. In the pale light of the cabin, Marnie turned her head towards the porthole, wondering if she would catch a glimpse through the net of a boat passing. But it was Anne coming on board. She pushed open the cabin door and came in backwards, holding a tray.
“Meals on Wheels, or rather Meals Afloat,” she announced cheerily. “How are you feeling?”
Marnie pulled out the earphones. “Not bad.”
“Good. I’ve brought you some soup and a sandwich: brie with cucumber.”
She set the tray down on the bed. The soup smelled wonderful, and a yellow gingham napkin covered the bread basket. Beside them stood a glass of sparkling water and an egg cup containing a single daisy. Marnie smiled at the sight.
“This is a nice surprise. I was expecting mid-morning coffee.”
“I’ll forward your complaint to the management. But it is half past twelve, so lunch is in order.”
“Is it so late? I had no idea.”
“You were dozing when I came over with coffee, so I thought I’d better let you sleep.” Anne noticed the Walkman. “Did you listen to the tape?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to bring you any more?”
“No. I must try to get up when I’ve had this.”
“I’ve been through all the post and I’ve done some letters for you to sign. All routine: invoices, reminders, the usual stuff.”
“Thanks. I hope you’ve been able to get on with your college work.”
“No probs. Now eat up. I’ll be back soon.”
“Before you go, can you help me to get up? I need to visit the bathroom.”
Anne supported Marnie’s back while she manoeuvred out of bed. “Can you manage from here on?”
“Sure.”
Anne passed her the mobile phone. “You’d better take this with you. If you get stuck in the loo, ring me. I’ll send in the Seventh Cavalry.” She laughed. Before leaving, she turned in the doorway. “Oh, a couple of phone messages, I meant to tell you. Mike Brent rang. I told him we’d got Perfidia to Blisworth. He was pleased about that.”
“Did he mention the change of name?”
“No, but I told him Mr Taverner didn’t want it changed. I thought I’d better let him know, seeing that he’d raised it with you. Was that all right?”
“How did he react?”
“He seemed surprised, said he thought it’d been agreed. I just said you’d asked Mr Taverner about it, and he was adamant. Mike was quiet for a moment or two, then said it was a pity. I told him you’d tried to persuade Mr Taverner, but he wouldn’t budge. I hope I did the right thing.”
“Did Mike say anything else?”
“Er, oh yes, he said he might talk to Mr Taverner himself.”
“That’s fine, Anne. We’ll carry on as before, no action unless Charles tells us otherwise.”
“Okay. There was one other message. Philip rang. He wants you to phone him back when you’re up and about. Nothing urgent, he said.”
The trip to the loo was more of a struggle than Marnie had expected. After two unsuccessful efforts to stand, she even thought of taking up Anne’s offer of the Seventh Cavalry. Her sense of personal dignity forced her to persevere and at the third attempt she wobbled to a vertical position, smoothed her bathrobe around her and staggered back to the sleeping cabin. To her surprise, Anne was sitting on the bed.
“You look to me as if you need a doctor, Marnie.”
She got up and helped her friend to reach the bed. Anne supported Marnie while she swivelled her legs, lowered her back against a pile of pillows and pulled up the duvet.
“There are some magazines on the floor under the bed. Would you like to read them, help pass the time?”
“I shall die of boredom if I lie here much longer.”
“Let me fetch the radio, and what about some music cassettes to play on the Walkman?”
Marnie nodded in resignation.
“Do you think you’d be able to run an eye over my project work, Marnie? I’d really like to know what you think about them so far.”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
“Thanks. I’ll go and fetch the folders. If you think of anything else you need, ring me in the office barn and I’ll bring it down. You’ve still got your mobile handy?”
“Yep.”
After Anne had left the boat, Marnie reached into the pocket of her bathrobe and pulled out the phone. She was wondering whether to ask Anne to bring some clients’ folders to look through her own projects, when another idea came into her mind. She pecked out a familiar number on the keypad.
“Hi. Philip Everett, please. It’s Marnie Walker.”
Philip was talking to colleagues in the meeting room, and Marnie left a message. Within less than ten minutes he returned the call.
“Anne said you were in bed with your back, Marnie. What’s happened to you?”
“Probably overdid the locks at the weekend. We brought Perfidia up from Leighton Buzzard.”
“A hazardous business, boating. Well, you’ve got to get better by next week.”
“What’s on next week?”
“I have an invitation for you. Would you like to come with me to the opening of the new extension to the Spice Quay Centre?”
“Where’s that?”
“Spice Quay is the new financial quarter in Docklands, downstream from Tower Bridge, south side.”
“You have a connection with it?”
Philip sounded pained. “Marnie, it’s one of our projects. Are you so far removed from London that you don’t keep up with things any more?”
Marnie could feel her face redden. “Oh Philip, I’m spending so much time worrying about other things that I’m losing touch with reality. Tell me about Spice Quay … great name.”
“It’s a great place. My best job ever. Seriously. It’s an extension to a converted Victorian warehouse. The whole thing will be the HQ of Findhorn Asset Management.”
“Stockbrokers?”
“Something like that, part of the Findhorn Banking Group. We’ve been nominated for a Civic Award for this.”
“Congratulations. I’d love to come … if I’m able to walk around by then. It’ll be a pleasant break from my other concerns.”
“Er, not actually. That’s partly why I’m inviting you.”
“Oh?”
“Remember you told me about Clive Adamson?”
“Ye-e-es.”
“He’ll be there. Turns out he’s chairman of the parent company. I’ve only dealt with the team at FAM, but his name is on the invitation as the big cheese. That’s why I thought of you.”
“That’s really weird, what a coincidence.”
“Would you like an even bigger coincidence? They’ve just bought a painting to hang in the boardroom … by Piers Wainwright.”
“You’re kidding!”
“It’s a riverscape of how Spice Quay looked in the nineteenth century at the height of its days as a busy dock, when it got its name.”
“Will the painting be in place for the opening?”
“That’s the plan. And so will the artist. You’ll be able to kill two birds … sorry, Marnie, I mean you’ll get to see them both. Are you up for it?”
“I suppose so, if I’m up for it.”
The afternoon passed more quickly. Marnie was astonished at how much work Anne had carried out on her college projects. She had taken as her theme the development of European design roughly between the Franco-Prussian war of 1870-71 and the second world war. The sheer volume of material she had produced was incredible, ranging from the Art and Craft movement in Britain and its spread throughout Europe via Art Nouveau and Jugendstil, to the influence of th
e Bauhaus and the international style.
Anne had included biographies of key players and a wealth of illustrative material to demonstrate how development had taken place. Marnie thought the project was well up to university standard, not just an A level project. Here was not just an assembly of facts taken from other people’s books, but a well-argued and attractively presented exposition of a key period in architecture and design. The biggest surprise was how much Marnie learnt from the dossier.
When Anne arrived with tea in the middle of the afternoon, Marnie heaped praise on her.
“No wonder you don’t feel under pressure on this. It’s virtually finished.”
“Not really. I want to turn it into a whole presentation now, a complete package. I’m going to make it into a book, like those big art books in the shops, with an illustrated cover, graphics, title pages, footnotes, acknowledgements and an index … oh and a bibliography. I’m thinking of adding a whole section of illustrations showing what buildings and artefacts looked like before William Morris and his friends came along and how they changed over the decades up to people like Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Le Corbusier and Frank Lloyd Wright.”
“He was American, surely, rather than European.”
“But he was part of the same trend. Anyway, his mum’s family was Welsh.”
Marnie stared. “I didn’t know that.”
“Your tea’s getting cold. How’s your back feeling?”
“Not so bad. The rest has done me good. So has your project, helped take my mind of things.”
“Good. Are you up to making some phone calls?”
“Sure.”
Anne gave Marnie a list and a small pile of folders. “I think this is all you’ll need. Apart from that there were a few other calls. Ralph rang with a very curious message, something about … a nunnery? Does that make sense?”
Marnie grinned. “Yes, an in joke.”
“Okay. Beth rang. She’ll phone you tomorrow. And Mr Taverner phoned to say he’d been contacted by Mike Brent and had confirmed no change to the name, Perfidia. No need to ring him back. He’ll be out tomorrow, speak to you later in the week.”
“Okay.”
“I told him you were likely to be resting at home tomorrow,” Anne said pointedly. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
Marnie smiled. “Yes, mummy.”
When Anne had left, Marnie lay back against the pillows, wondering how she would ever cope without her closest friend. She hated herself for having lied to her.
39
Marnie waited till Ralph had gone for his morning walk the next day before she attempted to stand. Only a slight niggle as she swung her legs out from under the duvet. She bent forward, pressed down on the mattress with both hands and straightened up. A wobble, but she steadied herself against the cabin wall and took two steps. Muttering thanks for her deliverance, she tottered towards the bathroom.
When Marnie headed for breakfast on Sally Ann, a little more slowly than usual, Ralph and Anne applauded her entrance. She replied with a thumbs-up.
“So it’s back to normal.” Ralph grinned.
Marnie groaned and threatened a relapse. Anne gave him the Death Stare. He cringed.
By late morning, with Marnie promising to take it easy, Anne set off for an afternoon at college, armed with her project folders. Ralph was surprised when Marnie rang him in his study on Thyrsis and asked if he could bring his work over to the office to man the phones after lunch. Believing that she was going to spend the afternoon in bed, he readily agreed, telling her he was glad she was being sensible. He should have known better.
She had already put her shoulder-bag in the Discovery before Ralph appeared for lunch. After they had eaten and she eventually walked towards the door, Ralph was concentrating intensely on a paper he was preparing on the implications for global resources of growth in the Chinese economy. He glanced up and wished her a good rest before returning to his analysis. It was a minute later, hearing the car leaving the garage barn, that her words registered. As she walked out she had spoken quickly.
“A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.”
By the time he reached the door, the Discovery was halfway up the field track.
Marnie parked as close to the prison entrance as she could. The car park seemed unusually full for a mid-week afternoon, and there appeared to be some kind of demonstration in progress at the far end. She hoped it would not result in her being turned away after she had taken so much trouble to escape from Glebe Farm to be there.
Her anxiety was unfounded, and she was allowed in, passing in the corridor a number of visitors who were already leaving. She was later than she had hoped and knew she would have barely twenty minutes to talk.
When Neil entered the room with his escort, he looked very surprised to see her. He noticed that she sat down stiffly and carefully.
“Marnie …” Concerned, he reached across to take her arm and steady her. “Are you all right?”
“Pulled something in my back. It’s nothing.”
When they were settled he looked into her face. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Look, Neil, I haven’t got much time. I’ve been listening to the tapes and I need to know more about Adamson and Wainwright. I’m going to an event next week, and they’ll both be there.”
“Will Charles be there?”
“No.”
“But aren’t you with him?”
“Charles? What do you mean … with him?”
“He was here just a couple of minutes ago. I’d only just gone back to my … room when they fetched me out again. I thought he’d forgotten something.”
“I had no idea he was even here. He didn’t mention it to me.”
“I’m amazed you didn’t pass him on your way in. Wait a minute, you mean you don’t know about his proposal?”
“I don’t know a lot of things. Tell me about it.” She looked at her watch.
“He’s going to announce that he believes I’m innocent and he supports my appeal campaign. Isn’t that great?”
“Yes, it is. But I came here on my own to find out whatever you can tell me about those other men.”
“I only know what’s on the tapes, Marnie. I’ve never met them personally. I’ve seen Wainwright on TV, the South Bank Show, the odd exhibition opening, that sort of thing. I don’t even know what Adamson or Stuart look like. I’ve met Mike Brent a few times, of course.”
“So far I’ve come across the odd mention of Stuart and Adamson on tape. Is there much more? I feel like I’m prying into Barbara’s – and your – private life like some kind of voyeur without learning anything.”
“She talked about them several times. You’ve got all the tapes, presumably. You’ll find out what she thought about them. It might give you an idea, an insight, some sort of feeling for their relationships.”
“I don’t know if this will really get me anywhere, Neil. I feel uncomfortable sticking my nose in like this. You may agree to what I’m doing, but I don’t think Barbara would’ve been happy about it.”
Neil paused, staring at Marnie. “If it helps in the slightest way to find who killed her, she’d approve. Take my word for it. I knew her better than anyone in recent years. Surely you can tell that from the tapes.”
Marnie felt she had wasted her time. She was no wiser than when she had arrived. All she had was more questions, more doubts. Why had Charles left the message that he was going to be out today without saying where he was going? Didn’t he trust her? The whole business was unsatisfactory. She was being pushed into doing things without ever getting the full story. What did Neil imagine the tapes were going to reveal, apart from a load of intimate details that Marnie had no right – and no desire – to hear? She comforted herself with the thought that Charles was now assuming more direct responsibility and from now on he would be taking a leading role in the campaign. As long as he leaves me out of it, that’s fine, Marnie muttered to herself.
At the entrance she re
ached into her pocket for the car keys. Pulling them carefully out of the tight jeans for fear of jolting her back, she looked up to find herself confronted by people wielding cameras and recording machines. At the centre of the hubbub, a few metres away was Charles Taverner. Their eyes met.
“Marnie!” He went towards her.
“What’s all this?”
“I made my announcement. I’ve just given an interview for television.”
“You didn’t mention that when we spoke.”
“Spur of the moment this morning. I just picked up the phone, rang the news desk at the BBC and said I was coming here today to tell Neil Gerard that I was supporting his campaign.”
“That seems to have got them jumping. Shouldn’t you get back to the paparazzi? Your public awaits you.”
“They’ve finished now.”
Marnie saw that most of the journalists and photographers were moving away. One or two lingered, casually observing the conversation, then they too went off.
“So what happens next, Charles?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. Neil thinks I should write to the Home Secretary and protest my belief in his innocence.”
“What about your buddy, Chief Inspector Bruere? Are you going to contact him?”
“I think I should probably concentrate on the higher authorities … politicians, the judiciary.”
“Charles, I don’t want to be a kill-joy, but the higher authorities are going to want to know what evidence you have to prove Neil’s innocence. Do you have any evidence, other than a gut feeling?”
“You have to start somewhere, Marnie. Perhaps you’ll be able to turn up something from your enquiries.”
“But –”
“I have to take a stand, Marnie, do what I believe to be right. And I don’t care if it does sound melodramatic. More than anything I want the real killer to be found, caught and put away forever. I’m engaging the best criminal lawyer I know to try to get the case re-opened.”
They both realised Charles was gripping Marnie by the arms. Marnie turned to see if any journalists were still around, but they had vanished, no doubt rushing off to e-mail their stories back to base. Charles released his grip.
