by McNeir, Leo
“Was he jealous of her success in taking his place, would you say?”
“He’d been promoted, sergeant. I’m sure he took an interest in what went on in his old parish, but his new job was a step up the ladder.”
“So he’s an ambitious man, in your opinion?”
“I hardly know him. But it stands to reason, he must have been glad to get on.”
“And it would be regrettable if he suffered a setback because things went wrong from the beginning.”
“I really don’t know him well enough to be able –”
“Coming back to my question, Mrs Walker. You didn’t give me a direct answer. Have you any idea at all where he might be at the present time?”
“Sergeant Marriner, I think you’re getting the wrong end of –”
“Mrs Walker. Will you please answer my question.” The voice was quiet but the tone was firm. Marnie wondered if she had said too much already. Why did Marriner distort everything she said? Would it be better for the police to contact Randall for his own good? Would there be more trouble if they found out that she had been at the vicarage?
“The other day,” Marnie began. “It was Saturday morning. I went to the vicarage and happened to notice that there was a car in the garage. I don’t think it was Toni’s old Allegro. It was a different colour, dark blue I think, and a different make. It’s just a thought.”
“Do you know what car Mr Hughes has?” said Marriner. Marnie shook her head.
“A VW beetle,” said Anne quietly. “Dark blue. I don’t know what the number is.”
Marriner made a note on his pad and spoke again without looking up. “Why did you go to the vicarage, Mrs Walker?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been getting strange phone calls, nothing unpleasant. No-one speaks, just silence. I’m sure someone’s there. The other day I got one and afterwards I dialled one-four-seven -one. The call had been made from the vicarage.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“I got Toni’s voice on the answerphone.”
“And you went round there because you thought you might find what exactly?”
“I thought Randall might be there, probably in a disturbed state. I thought it might have been a cry for help. This time I didn’t want to let someone down.”
“Of course, you can’t prove any of this,” said Marriner.
“Oh come on!” said Marnie. “Look, I’m trying to help. Can’t you just believe me?”
Marriner took in a deep breath. “Your track record for helping us isn’t exactly brilliant, “ he began.
Suddenly Anne stood up. “I can give you evidence,” she said and, without waiting for comment, reached across the desk and pressed the answerphone Play button. “Listen to this.” The last two messages came on, the first of them a silence lasting several seconds before the caller hung up and Ralph’s message began. “We found these when we arrived at half past seven this morning,” said Anne.
Marriner stared at her. “Were you with Mrs Walker when she went to the vicarage on Saturday morning, miss?”
“No. I didn’t know about that. I was on my way back from Scotland with my parents. We got here in the afternoon.”
“So no-one saw you at the vicarage?” he said to Marnie.
“Yes. George Stubbs saw me. We chatted for a minute or two about the upkeep of the garden.”
Marriner took more notes. “Now we’re getting somewhere. These are facts.” He stood up. “Thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch.” After he had gone, Marnie sat for a moment looking towards the door. Anne laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Coffee,” she said. Marnie nodded. “If he’s the pleasant one, I can’t imagine what the other one’s like,” said Anne, switching on the kettle.
“I thought you got on well with him,” said Marnie.
“But he twisted everything you told him, as if you were making out a case against Mr Hughes.”
“I expect that’s just their way of probing.”
“So that call wasn’t someone wanting our fax machine,” said Anne, unscrewing the coffee pot.
“No. Probably not.”
“And you were trying to protect me from what’s going on.”
“It’s a fair cop. I’ll come clean, guv’nor,” said Marnie. “The only thing is, I get the impression you’re better at this than I am.”
“Or maybe I just say what I know because I can’t see the implications,” said Anne. “I hope I haven’t made it worse for Mr Hughes.”
“I’m sure you haven’t. Here, let me take the tray over to the site. I have to have a word with Bob.”
*
While guiding the grey Cavalier up the track towards the village, Marriner radioed in the details about Randall Hughes’s car. Before he had pulled onto the drive of the vicarage, the police computer had confirmed that it was indeed a Volkswagen, colour blue and given the registration number. Marriner cupped his hands against the side window of the garage, discovered that it was empty and jumped back into the Cavalier. Within minutes, all units were instructed to keep a lookout for the dark blue beetle and its driver, who was to be apprehended for questioning. Care should be taken when approaching him.
*
Bob the foreman took the tray from Marnie and set it down on top of a toolbox. “Have you got a minute, me dook?” he said.
“Sure. You said you wanted to have a word about something.” The builder indicated that she should follow him. They walked through into the first cottage, stepping over stacks of sockets, switches and junction boxes. Already it was starting to look like a house, with window frames and sills in place, pipework and electrical conduits running up the walls. Bob led Marnie up a new staircase as yet unprimed and into a room where the old floorboards had been removed, revealing joists that had been cut in places to make gaps for water and heating pipes. New boards were piled against a wall. The fresh copper of the pipework shone red as it snaked its way across what was to become the bathroom. Stud partitions were in place, almost covered with plasterboard, dividing off a corner of the room. Yellow insulation was visible in places where the plasterboard had not been fitted. Marnie looked around, poking her head through the open doorway, freshly fitted with architrave, taking in the layout of the rooms.
“Three bedrooms,” she said. “It’s coming on well. Are you pleased?”
Bob puckered his lips. “Yes and no, really. It all fits together okay, compact but not poky. Don’t get too close to that wall, me dook. You’ll make your clothes dusty.” Marnie smiled.
“But something’s bothering you.”
“Just some of the details,” said Bob.
“Such as?” He nodded her over to the corner of the bathroom.
“In here, like.” He pointed at the wall, the original external wall of the old cottage.
Marnie raised a questioning eyebrow. “Go on.”
“You said you wanted to keep the character of the place as much as possible, didn’t you?” Marnie agreed. “You said you didn’t want us to put in lots of new plasterboard and make the existing walls all smooth and, er …”
“Featureless,” said Marnie.
“Right. But look at this part.” He ran his hand over the wall. It was rough, the stonework covered with old lime plaster that was bubbling and cracked all over its bumpy surface.
Marnie peered in to see it from close up. “What is this part? The airing cupboard, isn’t it? It’s not the shower cubicle.”
“No. That’s going next to it. This is the airing cupboard. We’re fitting it out with slatted shelves over the hot water tank. The thing is, me dook, well, if it was me …”
“Come on, Bob. Spit it out. I think I know what you’re telling me, but I’d like to hear it all the same.”
“Well, if it was me, I’d replaster in here to make a proper job of it, like. You know what I mean?”
“Yes. Will it actually be visible to anyone?”
“Well, only to whoever’s putting things in or taking them out.”
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br /> “You don’t think it will usually be full of towels and sheets, so that the wall will be hidden?”
“I suppose so, really, but it won’t be properly finished, will it? And it doesn’t make any difference to the character, doesn’t make it … featureless.”
“In a way,” said Marnie, “one thing cancels out the other, but I take your point. Okay. Please go ahead and plaster it. It’ll make a better job.” Bob led the way downstairs. Only one mug remained on the tray and he picked it up.
“Thanks for showing me that,” said Marnie. “It really bothered you, didn’t it, even though no-one would ever see the place?”
“Maybe,” said Bob. “But I’d know it had been left like that and so would you. I wouldn’t want to think I hadn’t done a proper job.”
“A matter of professional pride, “ said Marnie. Bob drank his coffee.
*
Anne looked up from her desk as Marnie came back to the office. “Frank Day rang while you were on site.” She liked using terms like on site. It made her feel professional. “He said not to disturb you, but could you ring him on his mobile when you had a moment.”
“Right. Thanks.” Marnie wondered whether that meant she should phone him when she was alone. She decided to make the call later in the day. For the rest of the morning they worked steadily, Marnie completing the design for a canalside pub, while Anne chased up the materials for The Irish Navigator. It was nearly noon when Anne filled the kettle.
“I’ll make them their mid-day tea. They prefer tea with their sandwiches.”
“It’s dusty work,” said Marnie absently, ticking off a list. “Tea’s good if you’re thirsty. When I was in number one this morning, I was amazed how much dust was in the air.”
“What was all that?” said Anne. “You didn’t say what Bob wanted to talk to you about.” Marnie explained Bob’s concern about the plaster in the airing cupboard while Anne poured boiling water into the pot and gave the tea a stir. She went out for the tray and rinsed the mugs quickly with hot water while the tea brewed.
“They said I spoil them,” she laughed. “They say they’ll always have to have clean mugs from now on because of me.”
“It’s nice that you look after them so well,” said Marnie. “I’m sure that’s one of the reasons why Bob likes to do a good job for us.”
“Well, “ said Anne, her voice booming deeply in imitation of the foreman. “If it was me, me dook.” They both laughed.
“Yes,” said Marnie. “That’s exactly what he said.”
“That’s what he always says,” said Anne. She picked up the tray and headed for the door. “He really does care about his work, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes,” said Marnie. “He’s a real craftsman.”
*
Anne volunteered to go back to Sally Ann and put together a sandwich lunch while Marnie continued with her designs. She reached for the phone half a minute after Anne had set off. The line was patchy but clear enough for Marnie to make out the strain in Frank’s voice.
“I really do need to talk to you, Marnie.”
“What’s the problem? Are you able to talk about it now?”
“No, but it’s about … my family, you know.”
“Would you like to come over for a sandwich? We could talk in private on the boat, if you wanted.”
“Thanks, but I’m on the road, following the van. We’re just outside Leeds at the moment. I probably won’t get back until early evening. We’ve got to collect some more stuff on the way down.”
“Do you want to ring me when you know what time will suit you?”
“Yes, I will. I’ve got to talk to you, got to talk to someone who understands.”
“Is this about Toni or the other vicar, Frank?”
“Yes. I mean both, in a way. Marnie, I know what happened.”
“Are you sure?” There was a silence and Marnie thought the connection was broken. “I can’t hear you, Frank.” She waited.
“I should’ve warned her. It’s a pity about the gravestone. She shouldn’t have interfered. She got in the way. I wanted to warn her, but then it was too late.”
“Frank, what are you telling me?”
“You’re the only one who can know what happened, Marnie. You must see that.”
“I’m not sure I really –”
“Look, I’ve got to go now. This is our turning.”
“You’ll ring me later?”
“Later. Yes.” He was gone.
“The only one,” Marnie repeated to herself. “Again.”
*
On the drive to Brackley, Marriner spoke to Cathy Lamb on the radiophone. She told him that Bartlett was in a meeting with Superintendent Bragg, Head of CID. It would be a difficult discussion, with Bartlett aware that he was short on results, had no clear idea how the crime was committed, no murder weapon, no prime suspect and at the back of their minds the knowledge that at any moment the media could decide to make a major issue of the case.
“Tell the C.I. that I’m going to Brackley to Randall Hughes’s house. He may have been camping out in the vicarage at Knightly. God knows why, but there’s something dodgy going on. Oh, and I’ll need you to come with me to Glebe Farm later today. Mrs Walker’s assistant has come back early from holiday. I’ll want you there when I talk to her. Actually, she seems more on the ball than her boss, certainly more co-operative.”
He found the house of the Rural Dean tucked into a quiet corner of the town, at the back of the church, approached by a cobbled footpath with iron railings. It was early Victorian with a paved forecourt and tubs of flowers, patio roses, petunias and sweet william that gave a cheerful air to the solid facade and heavy oak front door. Mrs Partridge was waiting to let him in and kept up a steady nervous chatter as she showed Marriner from one room to another. He said little, concentrating on the house, looking for anything unusual. There was not even a newspaper lying around as evidence that someone actually lived there.
“Is it always like this? So tidy?”
“Oh yes. He’s very fussy is Mr Hughes. Can’t stand mess. Of course, his study isn’t the same, lots of books and papers. But even there, he knows where everything is.”
“I’d like to see it,” said Marriner. “I’ll probably need to have a good look at it.”
Mrs Partridge took him upstairs to a large room with a bay window looking out onto the garden and the rooftops of the houses beyond. The mahogany desk occupied the bay and was covered with folders and books, leaving a space in the middle for working. Built-in bookcases lined two of the walls, all filled with books, and cardboard boxes as yet unpacked stood against a wall. At the second mention of the need to spend some time checking out the study, Mrs Partridge took the hint and offered to make him tea or coffee. He accepted coffee and sat down at the desk.
Rarely had he seen such obscure titles as the books that stood in small piles, no doubt classified according to some logic that was beyond Marriner to determine. There were commentaries on the Old and New Testaments, concordances and learned works on subjects that to him were meaningless. He picked up one volume at random and opened it. It was called The Argument for Q and the blurb on the back explained that it was a highly controversial analysis of all the evidence for the existence of original sources of the New Testament. He read two or three sentences on the first page and gave up. It was a long way from what he had learnt at Sunday school.
To his left was a pile of folders and he pulled them towards him. He glanced through the papers in the hope of finding something he could at least understand. The folders contained type-written notes that were as obscure as everything else in the room, the draft of Randall’s doctoral thesis. Page after page of long sentences in long paragraphs, interspersed with quotes, some of them in Latin or Greek or Hebrew. There were notes in the margin and extra paragraphs scrawled in tiny writing like a pattern round the borders.
The top folder was well worn in faded green with a W. H. Smith logo in the corner. On the cover wa
s an equally faded title in blue felt tip: Current Chapter. It contained about twenty pages of typing, plus a few sheets of notes in the now familiar minute handwriting. He flicked through the papers, determined not to miss anything that any reasonable Chief Constable could construe as evidence. Marriner reached the last page, convinced he was wasting his time. Here again was a decorated border that seemed to be composed of tiny flowers, but on closer examination Marriner recognised that it was also made up of words, indecipherable letters joined together without spaces between them, round and round the edge of the page like a maze, a hedge or a crown of thorns. He reached into his pocket for the reading glasses that he needed these days for looking at maps and timetables. As he fitted them over his ears, the microscopic print came into focus and he gradually established a pattern. It seemed to be a single phrase repeated again and again. He put his eyes closer to the page and tried to make it out.
“Christ,” he muttered. Mrs Partridge, who was at that moment coming into the room with a tray of coffee and biscuits, was shocked.
*
“Hey, this is a real treat,” said Marnie. “I didn’t realise you were going to do something like this.” She took a large bite out of the sandwich, craning her head forward over the plate. Beside her, Anne could not reply because her own mouth was full. They chewed on in silence and then reached for their glasses of cider at the same time.
“Dad made them on the last day of the holiday as a treat because the weather turned cool and cloudy,” said Anne. “That’s what gave me the idea. Of course, I just had egg in mine.”
“Egg and bacon sandwich,” said Marnie. “Wonderful. When I was a student in London, I remember going to Covent Garden market in the early hours of the morning after a party. It was still a real market in those days and we stood watching the flowers coming in, mountains of them. The smell was fantastic. We went to the all-night stall and had egg and bacon sandwiches and mugs of tea with the porters. I’ve never forgotten that.”
“I’m glad you like it,” said Anne. “I wondered whether you might find it a bit hearty for lunch.” In mid bite Marnie made conciliatory noises and shook her head. Suddenly, a strange sentence came to her. It must have been the awful situation on everybody’s mind since the murder, she thought, as she enjoyed the egg and bacon. The sentence made her shudder.