by Leo McNeir
Adamson. He had dumped Barbara, not the other way round. She displayed no particular distress or bitterness. Don’t be stupid, Marnie thought. Barbara was hardly going to pour her heart out to a lover about the loss of someone else. But it must have upset her – or at least bothered her – at the time. Why had he abandoned her? If she knew, she was not saying. But she did not know; Marnie was sure of that. Her tone made that clear.
Wainwright. Enough detail there to form an impression. Barbara moved in lively circles, luxury cars, swish receptions, artists, moneymen, the fast lane. Marnie would see that side of life herself at the Findhorn opening. She wondered about running another tape, but listening so intensely was tiring.
She raised the lid of the Walkman and ejected the tape, absentmindedly fingering the machine. Odd that Barbara had broken off so abruptly. Had something happened? Had Charles suddenly come home unexpectedly and interrupted her? Were the memories so strong that she could not continue? Odd. The tape began and ended with the same word, darling. Marnie shrugged. It was a term of close endearment, but it was – what did Ralph call it? – debased coinage, devalued with overuse. People used it carelessly all the time, taxi drivers, market traders, especially people like – no. Barbara never used it, at least not in Marnie’s hearing. With her it was always, my dear or even, my dears.
Outside was the sound of footsteps on cobbles, someone walking near Sally Ann. Marnie looked at her watch. Almost five-thirty. Minutes later Thyrsis swayed slightly and Ralph breezed into the cabin. He looked pleased with himself.
“You look pleased with yourself.”
He kissed Marnie and sat cautiously on the bed, reaching into his pocket. “I am … very.”
“One trip to Waitrose and you’re the new Mrs Beeton,” Marnie sighed languidly.
“That was routine. This …” He produced an envelope. “… is inspiration.”
She knew it would be good.
“This had better be good. Show me.”
He handed over the envelope and sat back. Marnie’s initial reaction was a slight feeling of tension. The last time she had opened a good quality envelope with a coat of arms on the flap it had given her a jolt.
“Oh, it’s like a book token or a gift voucher.”
“That’s what it is. On the way back from town there’s this new place just opened, Roselawn Country Retreat and Health Club. The voucher is for a full day of self-indulgence and relaxation. You can have a sauna, steam bath, jacuzzi, aromatherapy and a whole load of things I’ve never heard of. They’ve got a pool, a gym – out of bounds to you at the moment – a jogging trail, everything, really. And if you like it, I’m going to give you a year’s membership for your birthday.”
Marnie imagined herself being cosseted for a day, covered in essential oils, pampered from head to foot, relaxing by the pool wrapped in a fluffy white dressing gown,. She saw the whole thing in her mind in soft focus and was fantasising about Gianfranco the club’s masseur when she remembered her benefactor.
“Come here so I can show my gratitude. Then I’m going to ring for an immediate appointment.”
43
The decor of Roselawn Country Retreat was a fanciful version of Greco-Roman, with handmade tiles of terra cotta, statues and amphorae evoking the classical age. There was a smell of fragrant massage oils in the air. To a designer it felt just this side of OTT, and from the moment she entered the classical portals to receive her fluffy white dressing gown, Marnie loved it.
Her personal trainer for the day was a young woman called Toni with honey blond hair and a Pepsodent smile, who looked as if she had just popped in from winning the Women’s Singles title at Wimbledon. She asked Marnie a series of health and fitness questions, checked her height and weight – ooh, you’re spot-on! – and worked out a programme taking Marnie’s back problem into account. Marnie floated from the steam room to the swimming pool where she gingerly – and successfully – attempted a length or two of breast stroke. Her strong point that day was relaxation, and she buckled down to give it everything she had.
At lunchtime she found herself by the pool in the company of several women of about her own age who had evidently come as a group. They sprawled on recliners, drinking herbal tea. Like some of the others, Marnie picked up a newspaper and skimmed through it while partly joining in the conversation. The day was proving to be a brilliant success until Marnie turned a page to see her own face staring out at her. She jumped so hard that her teacup tipped over in its saucer, splashing the hot liquid over her white gown. Amid consternation in the group, a member of the staff arrived in seconds, whisked the paper out of Marnie’s hands, dropped it on the floor and led her away. With Marnie apologising for her clumsiness, and the trainer asking if she had been hurt, they went into the locker room.
Within two minutes Marnie was back in the group with an even whiter dressing gown and a fresh cup of camomile tea. But those were not the only changes. Her return was greeted in tones of only muted concern. She sat down surrounded by an awkward silence. Then she remembered the newspaper.
A brave face and an embarrassed smile. “Sorry about that, a sudden twinge in the back, I think.”
Murmurings of agreement and sympathy. Not very convincing. Marnie wondered how long she could stay before leaving without further embarrassment. Inside, she was cursing, deeply disappointed that her wonderful day of pampering should be ruined, that even here she should be pursued by the Gerard affair. She was taking a sip of tea when one of the women spoke.
“Was that you, the photo in the paper?”
Their eyes met. Marnie nodded.
The woman continued tentatively. “It says you’re involved with Charles Taverner, helping Neil Gerard get an appeal. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Marnie breathed her reply. She set aside the cup and began swinging her legs off the recliner. A twinge slowed her down. “I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled your day. I’ll go and –”
“Do you believe he’s innocent?” It was a different woman.
“Look, it’s a complicated business and I’m not sure I should –”
“But do you?”
A pause. Marnie looked at their faces. “I do actually, yes.”
“Well, I’ve never thought he did it.”
More murmurings, this time sympathetic.
Marnie, incredulous. “Really?”
A third joined in. “I read all about the trial and I certainly didn’t believe it.”
Marnie was amazed to hear herself say, “But it was conducted strictly according to the law, and all the correct procedures were followed.”
“Then why are you supporting him?” The first woman again.
“There are … factors, things I can’t talk about.”
“Evidence?”
Marnie frowned. It was a good question. What hard evidence did they have? “All I can say is, we’re working on it.” More amazement from Marnie at what she was saying. Who did she think she was … Sherlock Holmes?
“Are you a private detective?” A fourth woman, wide-eyed and impressionable.
“No, just a kind of friend of Barbara’s husband.”
“That’s what they’re hinting in the paper.”
Marnie’s cheeks reddened. “No! Nothing like that. Barbara and Charles were clients of mine.”
“So you and Charles are not –”
“Definitely not.”
One of the others said, “The papers always try to get that sort of angle.”
Marnie was keen to steer the conversation away from that angle. “So why do you all believe Neil’s innocent?”
The first woman answered for the group. “I know we don’t have the evidence and we don’t know all the ins and outs of the case, but he’s just not the type. He strikes me as somehow too sensitive, too gentle to have hurt her, let alone kill her.”
“That doesn’t make for a strong defence case,” Marnie said.
“Okay, but you have to rely on your own judgment. There’s something about Neil G
erard. He just seems a decent kinda guy. And he tried to kill himself that time.”
“You don’t think it could have been out of a sense of guilt?” Marnie as devil’s advocate again.
Much shaking of heads.
“Despair,” said the first woman.
“Do you all feel the same way?”
A woman who until then had said nothing summed up their feelings. “We all know it’s the quiet ones who can be the most unpredictable, but Gerard comes over as sincere. I could go for a man like that. You’re going to find you’ve got more popular support for his case than maybe you imagine. Good luck with your campaign.”
“Thank you.”
The impressionable woman spoke. “So who did it?”
The one who had summed up chided her. “You can’t expect her to answer that.”
“But it’s a good question,” said Marnie.
“And no doubt – even though you can’t say – you have a good answer.” The woman smiled. “At least, I hope you have.”
Anne stretched and yawned. She had spent three hours studying without a break apart from the odd interruption from the phone. That was the trouble with projects that were really interesting. She decided against coffee. An irritation behind the eyes warned of a headache coming. Fresh air’s what I need, she thought. She switched on the answerphone and set out for the towpath.
Twenty minutes later she was back in the office barn. She listened to three phone messages, none of them urgent, and made a list for Marnie. The project folders on her desk beckoned, but she knew she should be disciplined and take an hour off. The walk had made her restless, and she was not yet ready for lunch. She wondered how Marnie was enjoying her day at Roselawn Country Retreat and pictured her at that moment probably lying beside the pool sipping something cool to the strains of soft music.
Anne climbed the loft ladder to her room, where the light seeping through the window slit was always dim. She switched on the lamps. The low wide bed stacked with pillows and cushions, the Oriental rugs, the table lamps, some of them covered with chiffon scarves to create pools of pale colour, everything combined to create a restful atmosphere that to her mind was magic. It always brought her a sense of peace and security, hidden away from the world.
Her restlessness began to seep away and she thought that Marnie could easily have come up to this room if she wanted to relax. For Anne, this was her country retreat. Soft music was needed. She settled on the bed and pressed the eject button on the cassette player. The tape was a collection of hits from the Seventies. No. Much as she enjoyed those old songs, Mink de Ville, Suzi Quatro and Kandidate were not likely to create a feeling of relaxed harmony in her life at that moment. Perhaps something orchestral. But what? Her collection of classical music was limited. The 1812 Overture or the set of Beethoven Symphonies was not what she needed. Inspiration came to her. She had the rest of Barbara’s cassettes in the box under the bed. Many of those were regular music tapes, and they were all classical.
Sorting through, she quickly found the perfect choice: Karelia, Finlandia, the Swan of Tuonela. Sibelius was just what she needed. She fed the tape into her machine, pressed the play button and lay back. In the subdued light she became conscious of the sound of her own breathing. She breathed in deeply and rhythmically and felt herself start to wind down. Surprising how loud your own breath sounds in a confined space, she thought. Her breath started to quicken despite her efforts.
The first doubts came when she realised the music had not started. Groping towards the cassette player, she ran a finger over the controls. The play button was definitely depressed.
“The machine isn’t working,” Anne said quietly, exasperated.
“Yes,” came the reply.
The word hung in the air. The sound of breathing grew louder. Anne froze, her hand suspended between the bed and the machine.
“Yes … yes …” More breathing, quicker now. Sounds of groaning.
Anne lay there, mouth open, eyes open.
“Oh, my God …”
Marnie had not felt so good in a long time. The day had been a great success and she knew exactly how she would be able to show Ralph how pleased she was. The final treatment had been an aromatherapy massage. True, it had not been given by a handsome Italian masseur. There was no Gianfranco, but the trim young woman with curly hair who provided the service revealed herself to be an expert in deep massage techniques and spent many minutes working on Marnie’s lower back. Afterwards the whole area felt tender, but the aches and twinges had gone.
“You won’t thank me tomorrow, Marnie. It’ll probably ache for much of the day, but by Sunday morning you’ll be blessing my name. Just take it easy till then and don’t put undue strain on it for a few days. No locks, okay?”
She changed carefully into her outdoor clothes, grabbed her bag and checked her mobile as she made her way out to the car park. You have one missed call. You have one message. Sitting in the Discovery she played the message.
“Marnie, it’s Charles. Can you ring me back when you get this. Better still, can you call round to the rectory? Something has come up. Thanks.”
She phoned to say she was on her way and started the engine. She suspected he did not want to discuss the curtains in the drawing room.
“The sun’s over the yardarm. Fancy a snifter, Marnie?”
Marnie declined and accepted a tonic water. The healthy living ethos of Roselawn had not yet worn off. When they were settled in the conservatory, Charles came straight to the point.
“Sorry to tell you this, Marnie, but there’s a photo of you in one of the papers. It’s a clear one, no doubt about who it is. You’re easily recognisable.”
“I know. I’m on page five, probably too old to make page three now.” She smiled.
“You know? How do you know? Not the sort of paper you and Ralph would buy, surely?”
“Nor you,” Marnie countered.
“Oh, I get everything at the moment, broadsheets, tabloids, the lot. I want to keep an eye on what’s being reported.”
“I saw it just now at the health club. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I wanted to warn you that you might get noticed, might get bothered by the media. I didn’t want this to happen at all.”
“I doubt they’ll track me down here, Charles.”
When they had finished their drinks, Charles escorted Marnie to the front door.
“Health club, did you say?”
“Roselawn Country Retreat. I think it’s pretty new. Very lavish development altogether.”
“Don’t suppose they have a golf course?”
“They do. Eighteen holes, I think, with a professional coach. I’ve probably got details about it somewhere. Would you like me to dig them out?”
“Thanks. You’re not a player are you, Marnie?”
“’Fraid not. I was having a day off, getting treatment for a back problem.”
“You have all my sympathy. I picked up a back injury doing my army training.”
“What regiment were you in?” Marnie kept her voice casual. It was meant to sound like a polite enquiry.
“Mainly Royal Engineers. Did a short commission after university, just a three year stint.”
“I didn’t realise you had an engineering background.”
“Not really. I was attached to the staff of a General but it was just part of my overall training.”
“So you aren’t an expert in technical matters.”
“In technical …” Charles spotted the implication at once. His expression saddened. “No Marnie, I’m not, especially not in matters regarding gas systems.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t –”
Charles waved his hand. “That’s fine. You have every right to keep an open mind on all aspects of the case. And while we’re being open and frank with each other … Marnie when are you going to tell me what you were doing at Bermuda Reach that Sunday morning when I found you there?”
“Possibly never.�
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“But –”
“You’re going to have to trust me, Charles.”
“The way you trusted me about my Royal Engineers background, which I never concealed from you?”
Marnie thought for several seconds. Charles waited without speaking for her reply.
“Charles, can we go back to the conservatory? This may take a few minutes.”
He nodded.
“And can I change my mind about that drink?”
Charles was a good listener. He sat nursing a tumbler of straight malt while Marnie gave him as much detail as she felt necessary about the tapes. From time to time he looked alarmed and seemed on the brink of interrupting, but he controlled himself throughout the narrative. Marnie tried to make the tapes seem like a series of monologues, a kind of diary, but he frowned at the idea and it was clear that he dismissed it. When she reached the end of the story Marnie took a long sip of her weak gin and tonic.
Charles spoke softly. “I see why you tried to conceal the truth from me, Marnie. Thank you for that. And thank you for taking this on board. It can’t be very pleasant for you.”
“Apart from the one tape that Ralph heard, I’ve taken a decision: no-one else will ever listen to them … no-one.”
Charles flashed her a look. “You don’t think –”
“No-one, Charles, for their own good and for the sake of Barbara’s privacy.”
For a full minute neither spoke. Marnie finished her drink and set the glass down, ready to leave.
“There isn’t a day when I don’t think about Barbara,” Charles began quietly. “For the first month after her death I wept bitter tears every day for her loss. I hated Neil Gerard with a deep loathing. I wanted to hit him, to kill him with my bare hands.”
“That’s understandable, Charles.”
“Of course. But then I found my attitude changing. What if Sarah Cowan was right? What if it wasn’t some kind of trick to get him off? That’s why I so much wanted you to see him, Marnie. The opinion of another woman, an intelligent woman, would be invaluable to me.”
