Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  “Well, I’m out of luck today. Unless she returns soon.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it, Marnie. She was going very quickly, much faster than usual. And she looked deadly serious.”

  Marnie frowned. “Thank you, George. I’ll have to catch up with her when I can.” She took her leave and he watched her walking down the road in her designer jeans. Everything about Marnie Walker was well-turned, he thought.

  *

  “I’ve had an idea,” said Beth over lunch.

  “Well done,” said Marnie.

  “The weather forecast’s fine. Why don’t we go to the open-air concert on Hampstead Heath this evening? It’s the LSO and the programme looks good.” She passed the local newspaper to Marnie.

  “Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, Tchaikovsky, Midsummer Night’s Dream, Vaughan Williams, Fantasia on a Theme of Tallis … all very pastoral. Good idea. Let’s go for it.”

  “It shouldn’t make you too late getting back,” said Beth. “There’s no reason for you to rush off is there?” Marnie thought of Toni’s note … a problem … something very strange … the only person I can talk to …

  “Well, there is something I have to sort out, but one more day won’t make any difference.”

  *

  Marnie slowed down going past the vicarage on her way home. Lights were showing in two of its windows and she pulled up on the opposite side of the road. I’ve got a problem … something very strange. She looked at the clock on the dashboard. Eleven forty-two. Probably too late to call, even on someone easy-going like Toni.

  Marnie hesitated. Perhaps Toni had left another message. Marnie reached for the mobile and rang her own number to check the answerphone. Waiting for the machine to cut in, she saw a curtain move in the house where she had stopped. She turned off the engine. If the phone rang more than twice, it passed the cut-off point showing that there were no messages. It rang four times and she hung up. Too late to go knocking someone up. … the only person I can talk to … But not at nearly midnight, perhaps. Toni was probably putting the final touches to tomorrow’s sermon. Of course. Half the vicars in the country were probably doing just that. She started the engine and drove home. One more day would not make any difference.

  *

  Sunday 30 July

  Sunday was like old times. Marnie pottered about on Sally Ann, cleaning, tidying, coiling all the ropes. She was surprised at how much pleasure she derived from swabbing her over. The paintwork gleamed in the pale sunlight and she settled down mid-morning with coffee on the deck to polish the brass mushrooms. Anne and her family would be halfway up the motorway by now, she thought. Only one or two boats passed by and the crews raised a friendly hand. She screwed the mushrooms back into place and set off to the shop to buy a paper.

  “I thought you were a churchgoer, Molly.” Marnie placed her paper on the counter. “How do you manage with opening the shop on Sunday mornings?”

  “Easy,” said Molly. “We go to communion first thing. It just gives me time to change before opening up. Sometimes we go to evensong as well. That’s my favourite.”

  “So there are services throughout the day?”

  “Vicar does three in church: two morning, one afternoon. Then she goes over to The Grange and Autumn Lodge after lunch.”

  “What are they?”

  “Old people’s homes. She does communion for folk who can’t get about very easily.”

  “She’s a busy lady,” said Marnie.

  “Well, Randall started at The Grange and Toni’s added Autumn Lodge. And she’s improved the choir with a new junior section, Village Cathedral Choristers, she calls them. She got the choir master at the cathedral to let her have some of the choristers’ old cassocks when they got new ones. The children love it and she coaches them herself. She’s a very good singer.” Marnie remembered what Anne had said … Like the voice of an angel.

  “Very enterprising,” said Marnie.

  “And she’s started a new Sunday School group,” said Molly. She leaned forward over the counter and lowered her voice. “You know there are some in this village who don’t agree with women priests, but I must say I think Toni’s done wonders. And everyone likes her, well, nearly everyone, if you get my meaning.”

  Sunday was obviously not the best day to go calling on a vicar, especially this one. Marnie walked back past the church, past the cars parked up and down both sides of the road, while their passengers stood in the ancient building, singing their hearts out. She noticed that the gate was freshly painted. The sign board had been rewritten, displaying the name: Revd. Toni R. Petrie, BD, LRAM. In the churchyard the grass was mown short and the path had new gravel. The church seemed to be wearing its Sunday best. Sunday, the day of rest. But not for Toni Petrie.

  25

  Monday 31 July

  Monday morning felt like Monday morning without Anne around. Although, in a sense, she was around. Her influence was everywhere. She had left a list of the times she made coffee or tea for the builders and a note of jobs to be done, including any follow-up from Friday’s meeting at Willards and a reminder about an appointment with the accountant in Northampton (street map attached). There was a list of post to expect during the week, including a cheque due from Willards. Finally, there was yet another list of phone calls to be made, mostly the names of suppliers. At the bottom Anne had added Mrs Jolly and Jane in Little Venice, followed by a cryptic note: I don’t suppose you’ll feel like ringing Ralph. That girl! Marnie dutifully attended to her tasks and by mid-morning, after giving the builders their refreshments to the accompaniment of stage whispers – Look busy, ‘ere cooms the guv’nor! – she was ready to set off to see the accountant. First stop vicarage, to let Toni know what time she would be back. She would suggest a sandwich lunch on Sally Ann.

  Arriving at the top of the field track, Marnie was surprised to have to wait for traffic to pass. Strange. Not much ever came that way. She turned towards the centre of the village and had travelled just a short distance when she saw the sign: Road Ahead Closed. Roadworks? That was odd. They were not on Anne’s list. Pulling round the bend, she found her way blocked, not by a red and white contractor’s barrier, but by blue and white tape stretched across the whole street. Beyond it, cars were drawn up on both sides of the road, one of them in police livery. Marnie stopped at the kerb, thinking she should call in on Toni on her way back. It obviously was not a survey. Perhaps there had been trouble at the pub. She tried to think of other possibilities … I’ve got a problem … something very strange … She caught sight of movement in the churchyard. Oh god, she thought, more vandalism? What can it be this time?

  She got out of the car and walked quickly towards the barrier. As she reached it, a policeman stepped forward and confronted her across the tape.

  “Morning, miss.”

  “Hallo. I just need to have a quick word with the vicar. Can I come through?”

  “I’m afraid not. Nobody’s allowed through.”

  “But I just have to look in at the vicarage. It’s that house over there. It won’t take a minute.”

  “I’m sorry, miss.” He shook his head gravely. Marnie was about to ask what was going on, when he muttered “Excuse me,” and walked to the other side of the road to open the barrier. An ambulance drove through, heading towards the church. She heard voices call out and the ambulance reversed up to the gate. A feeling of dread came over her. The tower swayed before her eyes. She raised a hand to her forehead and took a deep breath.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  “What’s happened?” Marnie heard her voice, dull and distant. The policeman glanced over his shoulder to where the paramedics were getting out of the ambulance. They were in light green fatigues like the tunics of racing drivers. Their movements were purposeful, but unhurried. “What’s happened?” she repeated.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you anything.”

  “But I only want a quick word with Toni Petrie. She’s the vicar. She needs my h
elp.”

  “She needs your help, miss? I think you ought to have a sit down. You’ve gone very pale. Why don’t you sit in your car and I’ll get a WPC to have a word with you.”

  “Why won’t you tell me anything?”

  “There’s nothing I’m allowed to tell anyone, miss. Believe me.”

  “Okay.” Feeling suddenly weary, Marnie turned to go.

  “Do you live in the village, miss?”

  “At Glebe Farm.”

  “And your name?”

  “Marnie Walker.” She found herself sitting in the driving seat with no recollection of opening the car door. In the rear-view mirror she saw that he had been right. Her face was white with a pale sheen like marble. She pressed the button to open her window and began breathing slowly and deeply, trying to collect her thoughts. All she could remember was Toni’s message … something very strange … the only person I can talk to … the only person … What can have happened?

  The policeman left his post and walked across to the cars parked by the pub. Marnie could feel her self-possession returning. She tried to think logically through the situation. Obviously something serious had happened. Someone was injured. Equally obviously, there was nothing she could do at this stage. Preferring action to waiting, she started the engine and reversed from the barrier, making a U-turn in the road and setting off to her meeting.

  *

  The meeting at the accountant’s went by in a dream. Marnie took notes, drank coffee, answered questions, produced documents. Inside, she was somewhere else. The accountant spoke in encouraging terms about her business plan, suggested she diversify her client base and set out a timetable for presenting the first year’s accounts. He explained about allowances, tax concessions, VAT registration and schedule D. Marnie was sure the accountant did not notice her anxiety, or if he did, that he attributed it to the normal apprehension of people who are facing him for the first time under the pressures of self-employment.

  It was around one o’clock when she got in the car and headed out of town, switching on the radio to catch the lunchtime news. She drove on auto-pilot, vaguely aware of a fierce debate between politicians on opposite sides about taxation policy and between politicians on the same sides about the future of the Prime Minister and the policies of New Labour. There were kidnappings in Kashmir, street protests in Ulster and a drugs raid in Manchester. Marnie noticed that cars were overtaking her, an unusual phenomenon. Just before the final summary, the presenter hesitated briefly.

  “Ah, a report is just coming in of a serious injury to a woman vicar in Northamptonshire. We have no further details at present, but we’ll bring you an update on the PM programme at five o’clock. And the closing headlines this Monday lunchtime …” Marnie heard nothing else. Serious injury, a woman vicar.

  That afternoon Marnie sat at her desk as if paralysed. In front of her, a pile of fabric samples. They could have been rags, old newspapers or cloth of gold. She went out and inspected the building works, made tea for the men, came back and tidied her desk, checked her watch. At three, she switched on the radio. A bomb had exploded in a suburb of Belfast. Eighteen people had been injured, shops damaged and a bus destroyed. One of the paramilitary groups was suspected. She did not hear which one. A community leader warned of revenge. A priest appealed for calm on all sides. She switched to a local radio station, unsure of the wavelengths and found she was listening to a farming report from the Vale of Glamorgan.

  Restless, unable to settle to anything, Marnie walked up the field track. It was warm and overcast. There could be thunder. She shivered. The tape across the road had been taken down, but the church was cordoned off and a constable stood at the gate. The street was deserted as if the village was holding its breath. She turned and walked back. At four she listened to the bulletin.

  “The vicar injured in the incident earlier today in Northamptonshire has been named as the Reverend Toni Petrie, one of the first women to be ordained in the diocese. No details are yet available of the cause of her injuries, but she is undergoing treatment in the intensive care unit of Northampton General Hospital. Her condition is described as ‘critical’ and the police are treating the case as suspicious.”

  The afternoon dragged on. Marnie sat in the office, wondering whether she should phone the hospital, but decided they would probably tell her nothing. She collected the workmen’s mugs and washed them. Anne’s lists lay abandoned. Over and over again she tried to fathom what could have happened. An accident? An incident. What did that mean? And the police regarded it as suspicious. Someone must have attacked Toni. Even at this minute, she was fighting for her life.

  Marnie would have to tell the police about the vandalism. But what could she tell them? She had no idea who had done it or why. What would they make of a story about bigotry going back more than three centuries? Such a very long time. Yet it was only about a dozen or so generations. Was it really about which prayer book should be used? Did any of that matter? Was it about the scriptures? How could there be such fierce hatred about doctrine based on third-hand accounts of events that were only half-remembered, written down decades after they happened, and rewritten three hundred years later to keep the Romans happy? Marnie was stirred from her thoughts by the blast of electronic music at the start of the five o’clock news programme.

  “And tonight’s headlines read by Charlotte Green. So far no group has claimed responsibility for the bomb blast that shook Belfast at the height of the rush hour this morning. Nine people are still undergoing treatment in hospital. Police chiefs say that only a miracle prevented a massacre. Minutes before the explosion, a crowded bus full of commuters had stood at the stop where the device had been left in a holdall. Police in Northamptonshire are investigating the death of woman vicar Toni Petrie. She died of injuries following an undisclosed incident this morning in the village of Knightly St John, where she had been vicar for less than a month. The prime minister has called for party unity and an end to disagreements about the future of the European Union. In a speech given at the …”

  Marnie put her head in her hands, her elbows on the desk and felt the hot tears flow down her cheeks. She sat for several minutes, her mind adrift, unable to come to terms with what she had heard, unable to believe she would never again hear the cheerful voice, never again see the ready smile. She opened the drawer and pulled out a paper tissue to wipe her face. Worst of all, she knew that she had failed to answer Toni’s call for help. Days had passed and she had not spoken to her, even though there was a clear urgency in her message. Of course there were reasons why she had not contacted her, and it had not been through lack of effort. Oh, god. Could she have prevented this from happening if she had only knocked on the vicarage door on Saturday night? And what was it that had happened? … an undisclosed incident … What the hell was that supposed to mean? She jumped as the phone rang beside her in the silent office.

  “Marnie? It’s me. I’ve just heard about Toni on the news. God, how dreadful!”

  “Beth. Hallo, yes. It’s … I don’t know what to say. I think I’m in a state of shock.”

  “Do you know what actually happened? They didn’t say on the news.”

  “No. I’ve no idea. There’s no-one to ask, no-one to talk to. I’m just glad Anne isn’t here.”

  “That’s right, in a way, but it means you’re there alone. Why don’t you come and stay with us for a few days?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got a lot on just now.”

  “Marnie, I’m worried for you. I don’t want to sound alarmist, but you’re there by yourself. I mean, after what’s happened, I’m not sure it’s a good idea”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right. I’ll be careful. I always lock up.”

  True to her word, Marnie began to close the office, picked up her bag and tried not to think of the other tragedy that had befallen the village centuries earlier in that very barn. She remembered to glance at the answerphone as she passed. A light was glowing red, a number four was showing. F
our messages. She pressed the button. The first message was confirmation of a site meeting from Willards; the second was from Sandersons about material; the third was from Toni.

  “Hi, Marnie, it’s Toni. Molly said you were trying to contact me. Thanks ever so much. Sorry to pester you, but I really do need your advice. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. You’ll understand why when I see you. Anyway, let’s keep trying. See you soon. Oh, by the way, I’ll not be at home Monday morning. If you want me, I’ll probably be in the church. Bye! God bless!”

  Marnie never heard the fourth message. She opened the machine and took the cassette out, holding it in her hand like a talisman, while she stood, head bowed in grief and pain.

  *

  A restless night, followed by a tiredness that overcame her around dawn. Marnie woke feeling exhausted at eight o’clock to find Dolly asleep at the foot of the bed. Dimly aware of hearing the workmen’s van arrive at the farm, she got ready and had a quick cup of coffee, willing herself to start the day, telling herself she must press on. There was so much to do. Opening the last tin of cat food, she made a shopping list and thought of Anne.

  As she came out of the spinney, there were two cars drawn up by the farmhouse and a group of men standing in a huddle in the middle of the yard, one in police uniform. She walked steadily towards the group as they turned to face her. One of the men stepped forward and introduced himself as Inspector Bartlett, a tall, solid-looking man of about forty, with thinning dark hair. Marnie opened the office and went in with Bartlett and his sergeant, whose name was Marriner, an older man with a quiet manner. The other men waited outside.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Walker, but I’m conducting enquiries and I’d be grateful for your help.”