No Secrets (MARNIE WALKER Book 6)

by Leo McNeir

  “So that’s it.”

  “I wish you the best of luck and I look forward to following progress on your campaign. In the meantime I’ll keep the tapes safe until you tell me what to do with them. But in practical terms, I think my direct involvement is over.”

  Before stepping out of the prison door, Marnie pulled on a headscarf and put on her dark glasses. It reminded her of film stars trying to disguise their looks in old movies, and the thought made her smile. She knew it was unnecessary, but she had promised Ralph she would do it and had even agreed to use his car rather than her own. Behind the tinted lenses her eyes were scanning the whole area as she walked towards the Volvo. There were no journalists to be seen, only the usual movement of visitors arriving and leaving.

  The man holding the camera with the long telephoto lens was concealed behind a van about fifty metres from the prison entrance. The wind-on mechanism whirred softly as he carefully shot every person using the doors

  .

  45

  Monday morning felt like the first day of a new era. May had started as Marnie hoped it would continue, with bright sunlight filtering through fresh leaves in the spinney and few clouds to obscure the sky. She had walked confidently along the path through the trees on her way to the office barn. The burden of pursuing Neil Gerard’s campaign had been lifted from her shoulders, and she knew what was meant by having a spring in your step.

  Now free of back pain, she spent the whole day in a burst of energy, making sure that nothing was left undone from last week and that all was prepared for the week to come. Anne gave assurances that her college work was well ahead of schedule and it was no problem for her to spend Tuesday in the office while Marnie went to the Grand Opening in Docklands. This was all the more important since Ralph would also be attending a meeting at Senate House in the University of London.

  Opening the To-Do folder when she reached her desk, Marnie had one jolt of panic when she read the heading of the first message: Perfidia. But it was only Anne’s reminder about checking on the renovation works with the boatyard.

  “Have you dealt with this, Anne, or is it something I need to sort out? They’re taking longer than I expected.”

  “And I know why.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. They stopped working on Perfidia to finish another boat.”

  “Cheek! I hope they had a good reason.”

  “A deadline. They had to get this other boat ready for launching this weekend just gone.”

  “That was urgent?”

  “It was the last weekend in April.”

  “So?”

  “The boat’s called April Lady, so they were under pressure.”

  Marnie laughed. “Well, I just hope they’ve made up for lost time, that’s all.”

  Anne checked her own progress folder. “They’ve retiled the bathroom, replaced the carpet tiles with the strip wooden flooring throughout. They were varnishing the floors last week, so that should be finished by now. Not sure if the curtains have been made and fitted. I’ll ring that woman, if you like.”

  Marnie hesitated. “I’d like to see it, make sure it’s all up to scratch. Perhaps I should chase up the curtains.”

  “Let me do it.”

  “Are you sure you’ve got time, Anne?”

  “Of course I have. Marnie, it’s no big deal. It’s not as if the boat’s being rebuilt. Leave it to me. You can go off on your jolly tomorrow and forget Perfidia. Enjoy your champagne and canapés and just relax. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  It was starting to feel like old times. Marnie and Ralph caught the London train with nothing to concern them but a routine visit to the city. Marnie would be chatting about design and architecture in Docklands; Ralph would be chairing a committee in Bloomsbury. They bought coffee on the train and sat back to read through their working papers. Marnie studied the brochure about the Spice Quay Finance and Trading Centre, based on an article in the Architects’ Journal. Ralph read his agenda and notes.

  After a while Ralph looked up and smiled at Marnie. “Don’t often see you looking like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “All dressed up. You look really smart, understated elegance.”

  She was wearing a cream jacket over a navy blue shirt and skirt, with gold ear-rings and a gold chain round her neck.

  “So I’m usually scruffy?”

  “You’re usually casual. Jeans are fine, but you look good dressed like that.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ralph lowered his voice and leaned forward. “You know, Marnie, you’ve got lovely legs.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  He had an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. He leaned further forward. “Really lovely legs.”

  “And a slightly dodgy back,” she reminded him pointedly.

  “Ah yes. Will you be checking out any nunneries while you’re in the capital?”

  “Just a few.”

  Returning to her papers, Marnie came upon the invitation. Her heart quickened when she saw the name at the top: Mr Clive Adamson, Chairman and Group Chief Executive. She told herself to relax. This was a day out with Philip Everett, an old friend. She probably would not even get near Clive Adamson. All that was in the past. She turned the invitation card over and saw the map on the reverse. There was a note about parking arrangements. Parking!

  Marnie reached in her bag for the mobile and pressed buttons, reading the numbers from the card.

  “Good morning. Is that Judith Gross?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Marnie Walker. Short notice again, I’m afraid, but I’ll not be needing that parking space.”

  “No problem, Ms Walker. I’ll take you off my list.”

  “Do you want my space number? I’ve got it written down. Just a moment …”

  “No. That’s all right. I don’t need it. We’ve decided it’s simpler if people just park where they wish, as long as they keep to the same floor. Thanks for letting me know.”

  Marnie and Ralph went their separate ways from Euston. They would probably travel back on different trains and arranged to phone Anne when they knew what time they would arrive at Milton Keynes Central.

  In the taxi Marnie rang Philip on his mobile. He was already at the venue, and they agreed to meet in the entrance. While she was paying the driver, Philip appeared at her side.

  “So, what do you think of it?”

  Marnie craned her head back to inspect the Centre. The exterior cladding was bronze reflective glass, twelve or so storeys high, and as if pre-arranged a jet airliner flew past from London City airport, its image flickering across the surface as it gained altitude.

  “Impressive. Are you pleased with it, Philip?”

  They made their way up the steps and through security, where Marnie showed her invitation and was ticked off the guest list.

  “It’s my tallest building so far. You wouldn’t believe which major partnerships we beat in the competition to get this contract.”

  “You did it all in-house?”

  Philip ushered Marnie towards the lifts. “With the usual consultants.”

  She scanned the entrance. “Who handled the interior design?”

  “Faye led the group, your protégée. Do you like it?”

  Marnie had groomed Faye Summers as her deputy, and she had taken over as head of the interior design group when Marnie left the firm two years before.

  “The only thing that bothers me is the green.”

  Philip looked puzzled. “Green? What green, Marnie? The Findhorn colours are blue and gold.”

  “On my face.”

  Philip chuckled. “You can’t expect me to farm out all our lucrative contract work to you. I’ve got to keep something in-house to stop your old team from being idle.”

  They took the lift to the top floor, which had been divided into hospitality suites. When the doors opened, Marnie and Philip stepped out into a spacious reception area. A hundred or more guests had already arrive
d and were milling about, conversing with glass in hand. Marnie remarked that the noise level was just a moderate murmur. Philip pointed to the floor. The blue and gold Findhorn logo was featured in the design of the thick carpet. Covering the whole space, it had the effect of absorbing sound and inducing lowered voices.

  They had barely advanced two paces when a uniformed waiter approached, offering a glass of champagne from his tray. Philip guided Marnie through the throng. On the side overlooking the river, a wall of glass opened onto a terrace with uninterrupted views over the Thames and the City. Before they went out, Philip stopped Marnie on the threshold.

  “Just look out for a moment and take in the scene.”

  Away to their left Tower Bridge rose up from the river with glimpses of the Tower of London, the skyscrapers of the City and St Paul’s cathedral beyond. The broad river swept past far below them, curving downstream between banks lined with desirable residences, and the less opulent housing of the East End beyond. Templars’ Wharf was down there somewhere. For Marnie it seemed like a distant memory. Little had she known …

  “Well?” Philip interrupted her thoughts.

  “A stunning view.”

  “Now turn around and look back.”

  Marnie did as he asked and found herself gazing across the reception area above the heads of the growing number of guests at a vast painting hung over the lifts. It was almost a mirror image of the view she had just had from the terrace. But it was treated in a powerful, distinctive style.

  “Piers Wainwright, I presume?”

  Philip nodded. “And he’s here somewhere in the crush. If you want to meet him, like you said –”

  “That was then, Philip. It’s not really a priority now.”

  “Oh, okay. That was rather the point of wangling you an invite, though, meeting Piers Wainwright and Clive Adamson.”

  Marnie touched his arm. “Of course, and I’m really grateful. To be honest, I came mainly because I wanted to see your amazing new building. If there’s any chance of a look around, even if it’s just –”

  Philip touched her hand, his attention suddenly focused over her shoulder. Marnie half turned to see a woman easing her way carefully but determinedly through the multitude.

  “Sorry, Marnie, I’ve an idea my presence might be required. I’ll show you round later on.”

  The woman smiled as she joined them. “Mr Everett, the chairman wonders if you’d be able to join him. He thinks it might be a good idea to make his speech now. There’s a minister from the treasury who’s on a tight schedule and, er …”

  “Certainly. Oh, this is my colleague, Marnie Walker. You were kind enough to fit her in.”

  “Ms Walker, yes, of course. I’m Judith Gross. We’ve spoken on the phone.”

  Marnie had relieved Philip of his champagne flute and was too encumbered to shake hands. The two women nodded at each other, and the head of secretariat whisked Philip away with an apologetic smile. A minute later while Marnie was depositing their empty glasses on a side table, there were calls for silence and the chairman stepped onto a dais behind a bank of microphones at the far end of the area. For the first time Marnie became aware of camera crews. Floodlights were turned on and Clive Adamson began his speech. It was the usual list of thanks and acknowledgements, including a special mention for the minister who had given up time in his busy day.

  Clive Adamson was not what Marnie had expected. Unlike the suave, self-aware Ian Stuart, Adamson’s style was understatement. He reminded Marnie of an American senator, with gold-rimmed glasses perched on a long nose, hair brushed back, a neat and tidy man dressed in a formal grey suit like an accountant, a wealthy accountant. Marnie wondered what had made her think of a senator. Then she understood. Adamson had a forceful way of speaking, of giving emphasis to certain words as if to underline them, like a media presenter. The restrained style of dress disguised an assured character, confident of his position and influence. When this man spoke, he knew people listened.

  Laughter broke out around her. Marnie had been observing the man and was only vaguely aware of his speech. He had referred again to the minister, made some comparison between the hothouse of Westminster and the glazed building they were celebrating that day. Marnie wondered if Philip would appreciate the joke, when she felt herself jostled by a movement beside her. She took a small step sideways to make space and heard a quiet voice in her ear.

  “This is a delightful surprise.”

  She looked round. A suntanned face, blond hair, white teeth in a vulpine smile. Ian Stuart was grinning at her, offering another glass of champagne. As a reflex, she took it.

  “Mister Stuart.”

  “Ian. I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Marnie.”

  “I’m with the architect, my old firm. And you?”

  “Let’s just say I was part of the planning and development team. My company negotiated for the site.”

  While they were talking, Stuart manoeuvred Marnie towards the terrace. A round of applause greeted Adamson’s mention of Philip Everett … of Everett Parker Associates, the architects who have made it all happen. In particular I’d like to mention …

  “I wanted to ask you, Marnie. That day you came back to Bermuda Reach.”

  Marnie felt her jaw muscles tighten. “Yes?”

  “Did you get what you wanted?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Stuart took Marnie by the elbow and walked her out towards the edge of the terrace. “Have you seen the view from up here? We were restricted on how tall a building could be erected on this site. But it’s still an awful long way down.”

  “You can let go of my arm, if you like, Ian.”

  “Sorry. Where was I? Of course. Did you get all the details you wanted for your plans … for the wine bar, the ones you came especially to measure up?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you.”

  “Funny that.”

  “In what way?”

  “Two days later someone from your old firm came along to do exactly the same thing. Rather poor communication, wouldn’t you say?”

  The sound of more applause was heard in the background.

  “But they’re architects. They’d be measuring different things for a different purpose. Also I wanted to think over some ideas for the colour scheme. I always do that in situ. It’s the only way. You get to see how things look in real daylight.”

  Marnie knew she’d made a mistake as soon as she spoke. She hoped Stuart would not notice. But he did.

  “At that time of the morning, for a restaurant and wine bar, with windows facing south-west?”

  She stammered. “It, it was the only time I could be there. I just wanted –”

  “What are you doing out here?” It was a hard voice, stern and unfriendly.

  Marnie’s head snapped round. The sudden arrival of a newcomer had taken both of them by surprise, but Stuart only reacted with his habitual wolfish smile.

  “Piers, you old bugger.” He moved forward to shake hands, but the other man turned it into a hug.

  So this is Piers Wainwright, Marnie thought, realising at once that she was in the presence of two men who had both slept with Barbara Taverner. That brought her tally to four so far, including Charles and Neil. A bizarre statistic of which they, presumably, were unaware. Or were they?

  She only had a moment to assess the artist, but she immediately felt the magnetism of the man. Slightly less tall than Stuart, and not nearly as good-looking, he had a strong face with strong features, his head shaved in a number one, a fashion statement and a concession to thinning hair. Though not bulky, he looked muscular and fit. In black silk shirt and well-cut black trousers, he stood out from the other men present as if he did not play by their rules. He seemed in every way the opposite to Ian Stuart, except in being successful and probably rich.

  The artist released Stuart from the hug, holding him at arm’s length by the shoulders. He glanced at Marnie but made no apology for his interruption.

  “So what are
you doing out here?” The tone was different now, bantering but more friendly. Wainwright had a pleasant voice without the regional accent that Marnie had expected.

  “Why shouldn’t we be?” Stuart was trying to assert himself now, but he was on the defensive. “We were … admiring the view.”

  “Precisely. Instead of idling away your time out here, you should be in there looking at my painting. That’ll tell you what the view is really about.”

  “It’s about power and domination.” Marnie cut in. She was growing impatient with being ignored while her companions indulged in boy talk. “Two faces of the City linked by the common thread of the river.”

  Stuart blinked and stared at her. Wainwright’s eyes narrowed momentarily.

  “Which? The view out here or the painting in there?” He put the question like a challenge.

  Marnie stared him out. “Both, of course.”

  Wainwright let go of Stuart and moved towards Marnie. She folded her arms, determined that he was not going to hug her. To her surprise, he bowed.

  “I’m Piers –”

  “I know who you are.”

  “My fame precedes me.”

  “The signature on the painting is more than big enough to be legible.” Marnie was surprised by her assertiveness. Or was it aggression?

  “And if I was painting you, what name would I give the portrait?”

  “You don’t paint portraits, but the name is Marnie Walker.”

  Wainwright hesitated, reflecting on whether the name was familiar. “You’re part of this set-up?” He inclined his head briefly towards the reception.

  “Marnie’s with the architect.” Stuart seemed to resent being sidelined. “She’s an interior designer.”

  Wainwright ignored him. It was as if he was only able to give his full attention to one person at a time. He made another head movement. “Are you responsible for this …” He searched for the words. “… neo-Hendonesque collation?”