Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  The policeman stopped outside a door untouched by the fire and asked them to wait. He soon returned with the manager, a tall, well-built man of about fifty, crumpled and dusty, with bags under the eyes. He took his visitors inside, apologising for not being able to offer them coffee and sat them down in an area normally used for pre-dinner drinks. The comfortable decor and relaxed surroundings seemed at odds with the chaos outside.

  “The damage seems to be confined to one wing only,” said Marnie. “Do you know where the fire started and how?” Henderson looked out of the corner of his eye towards the window, puzzled and anxious.

  “Hard to tell, Mrs … er … Ms …”

  “Call me Marnie.”

  “Right. All the damage is in that part, as you can see. I heard the smoke alarms at about two and called the fire brigade. It’s odd, really.” He frowned again.

  Marnie butted in. “Look, you’ve obviously had a rough time and I’m not here to interrogate you. I suggest we have a quick look at the damaged areas and I take some polaroids. We can talk again when you’ve a little more time and things have settled down here. Presumably the fire started in the kitchen area?”

  Henderson shook his head. “No. That’s the strange part about it. The kitchens are in this wing. It must have started in the cloakroom or the toilets. At least that’s what the police seem to think.” Marnie noticed Anne taking notes on her pad.

  “What made you call the police?”

  “I didn’t, the fire officer did. They’ve been in there on and off all morning. Some other people came a while ago and cordoned off the whole place. I think they’re still in there now.” Henderson looked drawn and weary. Marnie stood up.

  “Okay. Let’s have a look at the damage and we can leave you in peace. We’re only going to be in the way here. I can get a builder to make the place secure for the time being and one of my colleagues will be up in the morning to take stock of the damage and give you a full report. This is going to take a while to sort out.” She led Henderson and Anne outside and set off at a brisk pace across the courtyard towards the blue and white striped tape bearing the word “Police”. Marnie took the camera, but before she could duck under the tape a man detached himself from a group standing beside the marked police car and strode up to them with one hand raised.

  “For the moment no-one’s allowed near the building.”

  “When can we go inside do you think?” asked Marnie. The man looked at her, taking in the purposeful air, the camera and the notebook. He glanced enquiringly at Henderson. “I’m Marnie Walker from the company’s architects in London. We have no wish to hinder your work, but we would like to make the building secure and prepare a report for reinstatement.”

  “Yes, miss. We’ve checked your credentials and informed your office that we’ll take care of security on the site. We’ll be in touch in the next few days. Until then, no-one is allowed access to the interior, I’m afraid.” Marnie was taken aback. Checked your credentials. Up to that moment she was unaware that she had any credentials and was not sure she liked the idea of them being checked without knowing about it.

  “Would you mind telling me who you are?” she said. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

  “Detective Inspector Nixon, Thames Valley Police. I’m responsible for investigating the incident at the present time.” Suspected arson, thought Marnie.

  “I see.” She turned and shook hands with Henderson. He looked a worried man. “There’s nothing we can do just now. If there’s anything you want, give us a ring.”

  “By the way,” said Nixon. “Your office seems to have no knowledge of anyone doing work experience with you or any other member of staff.” He raised an eyebrow and Anne reddened.

  “It’s comforting to discover you don’t know everything about us,” said Marnie and set off towards the car without looking back. They picked their way through the cluster of vehicles, glad to be out of the soot-laden atmosphere and the smoky haze. When they reached the car, Marnie looked across the roof to Anne, waiting by the front passenger door.

  “Are you okay?” she said. Anne nodded. “I’ll tell you something. It’s put a bit of colour back in your cheeks!” The smile in reply was undaunted. They got in and Marnie picked up the mobile phone. Philip was out of his office, but she left a message explaining the situation. “He must have gone for lunch. Let’s do the same.”

  Anne navigated them to Knightly St John across country on minor roads and it was not until they took their seats in the village pub that they had a chance to talk about what had happened at the restaurant.

  “Anne, I’ve got to tell you that was not the kind of thing that normally happens in my sort of job. If I’d had the slightest idea it was going to be like that I wouldn’t have brought you along. In fact, I wouldn’t have come myself. It was a waste of time, though I suppose it showed our clients we were doing our best to help them.”

  “What a mess,” said Anne. “And the smell! I’ve never seen a place that’s just been burned down before. Why were the police there? Did they think it was done on purpose?”

  “My guess is they thought it was the work of arsonists, maybe even terrorists,” said Marnie, at once regretting it. Anne looked thoughtful.

  “You were brilliant the way you handled that detective, Marnie, putting him in his place like that and calmly walking off. Will they say anything to you at work, you know, about me being with you?”

  “Of course not. Anyway, there’s something I want to tell you. Let’s order some food and we can talk without interruption.” Marnie returned from the bar with a glass of red wine for herself and a coke for Anne. They drank each other’s health and Anne sat patiently waiting for Marnie to begin. “The situation is that as my offer for Glebe Farm has been accepted, I shall be moving up from London to start my own practice. The company is letting me keep the contract with Willards Brewery, which will give me regular work probably for the first year of operations. I shall have to get part of the farm ready to serve as an office straight away, so there’s a lot to be done.”

  “Where will you live while this is going on?” said Anne, sipping her drink.

  “Ah, well, that’s one of the problems. Let me tell you what I have in mind.” Marnie outlined her plan to use Sally Ann as a base while the initial works were carried out. The first task would be to make a barn ready for occupation as an office. She explained that the docking area would have to be dug out as a mooring for the boat and listed the other operations needed. By the time Marnie had finished, she felt quite tired at the thought of it all. Anne listened attentively throughout the narrative, eating slowly, saying nothing until Marnie stopped and took a sip of her wine.

  “Does this mean you’re going to buy Sally Ann from your sister, then?”

  “Ah, slightly sore point. I think the best answer I can give you there is … sort of.”

  “You mean you’re borrowing her?”

  “Let’s just say it will be a kind of long-term loan, until my finances are sorted out. I have to put all I’ve got into Glebe Farm.”

  “It’s very generous of your sister,” said Anne.

  “Well, like I said, it’s a slightly sore point at the moment. Even that isn’t easy. I’ve got to get the dock cleared and that will be quite a task.”

  “Can I help, Marnie?” The question was put quietly. Marnie had braced herself for an eager entreaty to let Anne be part of her plans and was concerned not to discourage her too much at this stage, with her exams looming ahead. It was as she was framing her reply along the lines of we’ll-have-to-wait-and-see and we’ll-talk-about-it-later, that Anne moved into the silence that hung between them.

  “Do you know about Canal Action Network?” Marnie tried to recall whether the term meant anything to her. Anne went on. “They volunteer to do work on canals, you know, restoring the towpath, clearing trees, that sort of thing.” Marnie raised an eyebrow, inviting Anne to continue. “I’ve come across them a few times on my exam project. They might be able
to help with the docking area and get it ready for you so you can move there as soon as the place is yours.”

  “That sounds like a very good idea,” said Marnie, all thoughts of putting the lid on Anne’s enthusiasm now departed. “I wonder how you get in touch with them. Of course they probably have enough to do without this job, but it might be worth asking.”

  “I know how to reach them, Marnie. One of our sixth formers is in the local group. He does it because he’s mad on birds. He can tell us who the leader is. Also, I know they aren’t able to do any more on the Buckingham Arm because they’ve had to stop so as not to interfere with birds building nests.”

  “No birds nesting in the docking area at Glebe Farm,” said Marnie. “What did you say the group was called?” Marnie reached for her Filofax and took down the details.

  “You know, Marnie, if they could do it, it would help with security as well, wouldn’t it? I mean, they would be there some evenings and for part of the weekends. It would put people off going there to do any more damage.” Recollections of the burned buildings of The Irish Navigator passed through both their minds.

  “Anne with an ‘e’, that’s a very good idea. Now why didn’t I think of that?” She smiled at her companion, who beamed back at her in delight.

  “Well, you can’t think of everything. That’s why you need an assistant !” Anne raised her glass and, before Marnie could think about it, she raised her own and clinked them together, wondering at the moment of contact whether she was still in control of events.

  9

  It was after darkness had fallen that Robert Tarry came rushing to pound on their door. It was his wife’s first pregnancy and he dared leave her only for a few minutes to run to their nearest neighbours for help. She was sick with pain and feared she was bleeding. Sarah Anne helped her mother assemble a bag of herbal remedies, sage, lady’s mantle, wormwood and poppy. She struck a flint to light a torch, standing well clear of the thatch eaves as she waited briefly outside for her mother to come. Robert ran on ahead, afraid to leave his wife in her bed of pain for another moment.

  The two women made their way as quickly as they could along the lane, the massive bulk of the church looming over them as they passed the lych-gate, both of them praying for Margaret Tarry under their breath. This was a dangerous time for any woman. Sarah’s mother stumbled over a tussock half hidden in the shadows and she stopped to steady herself. Reaching forward to take her mother’s arm, Sarah’s attention was caught by a flash of light high above them. She hesitated for a second.

  “Come, Sarah. We must hurry. What is it?” Her mother was breathless. Sarah looked up at the tower, but there was no light.

  “Nothing, mother. I thought I saw something. But it must have been a spark from the torch flame.” She took her mother’s arm and they set off again. These were dangerous times for everyone.

  *

  “It is written, then,” said Philip in a prophetic voice when Marnie gave him an update on progress with the move. He said it more than once. In fact, he only just stopped himself saying it the fourth time she put her head round his door and gave him the latest piece of news. The first time he said it, she had smiled weakly. The second time, she had put on a slightly pained expression. The third time, something in her look warned him he was in danger of becoming a cliché. Marnie knew that Philip was on her side and accepted that this was the best time for her to go, if go she must. But she preferred to think of it just as a change of job, rather than a push in the back from the hand of Destiny.

  It seemed to Marnie that from the moment her offer was accepted, everything moved quickly and irrevocably towards the move from London to Knightly St John. Where things could have gone wrong with the sale and purchase of the two properties, nothing went wrong. Contracts were even exchanged one day earlier than planned and all the technicalities leading to the completion date in mid-June were carried out without the slightest hitch.

  Marnie rang the sixth-former who worked with CAN – the Canal Action Network – and obtained the name and phone number of the local group’s organiser, Dave Perryman. Far from dismissing the idea, he was delighted to accept the opportunity of a small restoration scheme and agreed to meet Marnie on site one evening after work to weigh up the task. Marnie’s offer to pay for the work was politely rejected, but her offer to provide refreshments whenever she could be with them was accepted. Dyson agreed to the works being carried out in advance of completion and co-operated with connections of electricity and water. Nothing, it seemed, would stand in the way of the move.

  At the office, Marnie was pleased that Faye Summers, a close colleague for the past few years, was going to be given the job of heading the interior design group. She experienced only a slight emptiness in the stomach at the thought that this was really the end of her time with the partnership.

  The surprise came about a week before the Big Day. Marnie was discussing the menu for her farewell office dinner when Beth rang and asked her to look in after work. There was something in her tone that did not seem quite right, no banter, no enquiries about the move, altogether subdued. When Marnie arrived, Beth seemed cheerful and they settled in the kitchen for coffee.

  “Paul set off this morning for Edinburgh and Dundee, examining,” she said. “He’s not back till the end of next week. So, how are things going? All packed and ready for off?”

  “Amazingly, not far from the truth. I’m having the office dinner on Friday at the Italian place round the corner. The removals people are coming on Saturday at crack of dawn, well, more or less.”

  “Are you having that chap’s firm? The one you met at the farm?”

  “Frank Day, yes. Days of Yore.” She smiled. “It’s quite clever, really. You certainly can’t forget the name. And they seem very efficient. Let’s see how much they break or lose.” Beth smiled too, but it was a polite smile, not her usual style at all, a vaguely interested kind of smile, the sort reserved for enquiries about the health of your mother-in-law’s bridge partner.

  “Beth, is something bothering you?”

  “No, no. Tell me about the rest of your news. No last minute hitches with the completion date?”

  “It’s all going fine, as far I know. Roger will tell me if there’s anything I have to do.”

  “What about your man in Oxford? Is he still in touch?”

  “Ralph? Yes, from time to time. He’s actually quite interested in a boat someone’s offered him, but he hasn’t got time to think about it at the moment. He’s been lecturing in America and now he’s up to his neck in examining.”

  “A familiar everyday story of university folk,” said Beth. She sipped her coffee.

  “There is something the matter, Beth. I can tell.” Beth shook her head slightly and pouted her lips to dismiss the suggestion. “Yes, there is. I know the signs. You’ve always been like this ever since we were kids. Come on, what is it?” Beth shrugged and pouted again. “Look, you didn’t ask me to call round to find out if my cups had all been wrapped up in newspaper. Something’s on your mind. Is it Paul’s job, a problem at work?”

  “No.” She paused. “I suppose I’m concerned … about you.”

  “Me?”

  Beth nodded. “You’re taking this big step in your life and I’m doing nothing to help you. All I’ve done is tell you it’s not a good idea and you’re giving up a good job and security to chase after something that might be a –”

  “Yes, fine,” said Marnie quickly. “I don’t need the reminders.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Beth. “I ought to be doing something useful, supportive, standing by you, you know, the sisterly bit. Instead, all I do is go on about our own problems.”

  “Beth, is this leading somewhere? I mean, it’s nice to know you care about what I do, but I don’t want you to worry. I don’t want you to feel you aren’t being a real sister if you’re not worrying, if you see what I mean. Things will work out or they won’t. If they don’t, I’ll find another job. But this is my best chanc
e to try to do my own thing.”

  “Fair enough,” said Beth. “You always were braver than me. First one up the tree, first to learn how to swim, first to try skiing.”

  “First to fall down the ski-slope,” added Marnie.

  “I suppose it’s because I decided not to have a full-time career of my own, that I tend to worry about you and Paul.”

  “Yes, but that was a decision,” said Marnie. “You chose to do book illustration because you could take commissions and still be able to go with Paul on his tours and conferences. It makes sense. It’s not as if you just sat at home all day.”

  “Actually Marnie, sitting at home is how one does book illustrating, but I know what you mean. Anyway, I didn’t ask you to come over for a soul-searching chat. I asked you to call because I want to do something useful, something to help.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything I need, really,” said Marnie. “But thanks for the offer.”

  Beth leaned across the table. “Let me tell you what I have in mind.”

  *

  So it came about that on the morning of Saturday, 10 June, bright and early, Marnie and Beth set off in convoy in separate cars, heading North out of London in light traffic. Within an hour they were turning off the motorway, taking the A508 West until they reached the signpost for the minor road to Knightly St John. They parked beside the church opposite the pub.

  “This is a very convenient arrangement,” said Beth. “All the essentials on hand.” She shielded her eyes with her hand to look up at the church tower. “Fourteenth century?”

  “Mostly,” said Marnie. “Though parts of the church may go back to about 1100.”

  “It’s certainly very beautiful,” said Beth. “Look at the strength of that tower. It’s a massive structure, built to last for ever. Can we look inside?”