Stick in the Mud: A riveting murder mystery

by Leo McNeir

  Two minutes later, Lamb was back in the office phoning the County HQ on the outskirts of Northampton. In response to her enquiry – on behalf of DCI Bartlett – she made two discoveries which intrigued her: the mountain bike had been checked for fingerprints when it was recovered and found to be clean. That was obviously suspicious. Of even greater interest was the fact that the bike itself was still in storage.

  Lamb could feel her heart racing and knew she had to act carefully. If she put a foot wrong at this stage, she could look ridiculous. Proceed in an orderly manner, and she could advance her career.

  *

  With filming finished for the day, Donovan suggested to Anne that they might visit the Tower of London. It would include, among other things, a chance to see the Crown Jewels. Anne accepted, and the two set off like tourists to ‘do’ the Tower.

  As they walked over Tower Bridge, Anne rang Marnie at Glebe Farm. She was pleased to hear that Walker and Co had not collapsed during her absence and that Marnie was managing to cope without her.

  “When do you want me to come back, Marnie? I seem to have been away for ages.”

  “Let’s play it by ear,” Marnie said. “I’m going to stay on here for a day or two, then re-join Ralph in Little Venice. I’m thinking we might travel back up here together on Thyrsis.”

  “So normal service at Walker and Co to resume next Monday?” Anne said.

  “That’s the general idea. In the meantime, you could stay in the flat for the rest of the week with Donovan, if you like, or maybe visit your parents on the way back. Up to you.”

  As they waited in the queue to buy tickets for the Tower, Anne and Donovan discussed their options. They were both keen on the idea of staying in Marnie’s flat, but Donovan needed to press on with editing his film material.

  “How about this for a plan?” he said. “Suppose I go back to my boat tonight, and spend all day tomorrow in the studio at uni?”

  “Can you get the editing done in one day?” Anne asked.

  “If I make an early start in the morning and go on for as long as it takes.”

  “Okay. Will you come back to the flat in time for dinner?”

  “Armed with flowers and a bottle of wine.”

  Anne squeezed his arm. “Then we have a plan.”

  *

  Lamb had caught DS Marriner as soon as he returned to the office. After presenting him with the completed burglary report, and in as casual a tone as possible, she explained her thinking and her actions in relation to the cyclist and the mountain bike. Marriner asked her to show him the traffic video again. He studied it for some time before walking along to DCI Bartlett’s office and asking him if he could spare a minute.

  The three detectives watched the footage again, this time pausing on the exact image that gave the best view of the bicycle frame. Marriner asked Lamb to tell her story to the chief inspector.

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” he said when she had finished.

  “Sir, it’s just that –”

  He cut her off with a gesture. “It’s all right, Cathy. You’ve made your point.”

  Bartlett stood up and crossed the office to look out of the window. When he turned, he spoke to Marriner.

  “Ted, I want you to go over to HQ and fetch that mountain bike from storage.”

  “Tomorrow morning, sir?”

  “Now.” He turned to Lamb. “Cathy, I want you to get on to Brunel University and get an address for this Smith character.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh and … I want you to go down to London with Ted Marriner. I’m going to be tied up here.”

  Struggling to suppress a grin, Lamb headed for the door. In the corridor, she spoke to Marriner under her breath.

  “Thanks, sarge.”

  “We haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Thanks for giving me a chance.”

  They went their separate ways, Marriner to the car park, Lamb to her desk. In a few minutes she was in contact with the student records office at the university.

  “I’m afraid we can’t give out personal details of students over the telephone.” The woman’s tone was reasonable, the response not unexpected.

  “As I said a moment ago, my name is detective constable Cathy Lamb. I’m with Northamptonshire County Constabulary. We’re conducting an investigation into a major crime. Your student, Mr Smith, is believed to be a material witness and we need to speak to him as a matter of urgency.”

  “Even so, we have rules on confidentiality, and I have no authority to give out the information you’re asking for. I’m sorry.”

  “May I know who I’m speaking to, please?” said Lamb.

  “My name is Helen Gibbs.”

  “Ms Gibbs, are you aware that it’s a serious offence to withhold information from the police?”

  The line went silent.

  “Hallo?” said Lamb.

  “I’ve … I’ve never had this kind of enquiry before.”

  Lamb realised this was new territory to her, too, and she wanted to play everything by the book. One false move could jeopardise the investigation and ruin all her good work.

  “Could I speak to the person in charge of your department?”

  “That’s Mrs Bellamy, Monica Bellamy. I’ll see if I can get her for you.”

  When Mrs Bellamy came on the line, she was just as cautious as Helen Gibbs. Lamb was ready with her request.

  “Can you give me your fax number, please. I’m going to send you a written request for the information at once. If you have a problem with that, you can phone me via the divisional HQ switchboard or speak to my chief inspector. We really do need to contact Mr Smith. It’s important.”

  Lamb typed the fax on headed notepaper in record time and sent it on its way. Ten minutes later her phone rang.

  “Thanks for getting back to me, Mrs Bellamy.”

  “I have information for you, Ms Lamb, but it may not be what you hoped for.”

  “If you could just give me the contact details …”

  “The address is in Göttingen.”

  “Where?”

  “I think that’s how you pronounce it. I understand it’s a town in Germany.”

  “No, no,” Lamb said. “I must have his UK address.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to help you very much,” Mrs Bellamy said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It says here, NB XO2.”

  “What the hell is that?” Lamb was beginning to feel the misgivings arising from any dealings with Glebe Farm and its associates. “Can you say it again?”

  Mrs Bellamy obliged.

  “And that’s the UK contact address for your student? That’s how you get in touch with him?”

  “We normally use the university pigeonholes in term time.”

  Lamb was dismayed. “So is that all you have?”

  “Not quite … there is something else. It says c/o the Grand Union Canal. Then we have a mobile phone number.”

  “Grand Union …? Ah, wait a minute,” said Lamb. “NB … that could be for narrowboat. You’re sure that’s all you have?”

  “Positive.”

  Lamb took down the remaining details, including the mobile number.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  Next stop, the British Waterways Board, the UK’s licensing authority for inland waterways. Praying she would not meet the same obstruction from that organisation, Lamb found the number for the head office. The man who answered her call could not have been more helpful, but the result was no more enlightening.

  “Yes, there is indeed a boat called XO2, licensed to a Mr N D Smith.”

  “Great,” said Lamb, getting somewhere at last. “And its mooring?” Her pen was poised over the pad.

  “It’s down as a CC.”

  “Sorry, you’ll have to explain. I’m not familiar with –”

  “Continuous cruiser.”

  “Meaning?”

  “What it says. He doesn’t h
ave a mooring. He cruises continuously.”

  “Does that mean you don’t know where he keeps the boat?”

  “We have over two thousand miles of waterways, Miss Lamb. He could be anywhere.”

  Lamb was now losing the will to live. After hanging up, she put her head in her hands.

  “You all right, Cathy?”

  She looked up to see Sergeant Marriner hovering over her.

  “I’m drawing a complete blank with this Smith character. He lives in Germany and his only address here seems to be a boat with a weird name somewhere in England.”

  “But you’ve got his details, surely,” Marriner said. “You interviewed him some months ago, remember? Didn’t you get his particulars then?”

  Lamb scrambled in the second drawer of her desk and began pulling out notebooks. She checked the dates and began flicking through the pages.

  “Yes! Sarge, you’re a genius.”

  “True. Have you got it?”

  Lamb’s expression reverted to despair as she read her old notes.

  “Oh no … He gave his address as west London, on the canal somewhere between Uxbridge and West Drayton.”

  “That’s better than nothing, isn’t it?” Marriner said.

  Lamb was incredulous. “Somewhere between –”

  “Exactly. Isn’t Brunel University in Uxbridge? Stands to reason he’s going to be staying somewhere in the area. It’s easier to check out the canal than all the streets in the borough.”

  “I suppose it is, sarge. I hadn’t thought of it like –”

  “Cathy, get back to British Waterways. They must have someone responsible for each section of the canals. Give them a rough idea of where we think this boat may be. That might help them locate it for us. Then nip along to the boss and give him the name of the boat. He’ll need it for the search warrant.”

  15

  Surprise Visit

  For Marnie it felt very strange, sleeping alone on Sally Ann again, and she certainly missed the up-to-the-minute facilities of Thyrsis. She missed Ralph, too. When she awoke early on Tuesday morning, she found Dolly curled in a ball at the foot of the bed. Feeling Marnie stir, the cat made a quiet warbling sound that turned into a yawn. Marnie looked down to find her gaze returned by two large amber eyes.

  “Good morning, Dolly. Time to explore our feeding bowls?”

  The sturdy black cat agreed. They rose together and padded towards the galley.

  *

  Fifty miles to the south, on a mooring in London’s Little Venice, Ralph was still sleeping. He would probably not be visiting the galley on Thyrsis for at least another hour.

  In Docklands, Anne the early riser was already in the shower, her clothes for the day laid out on the double bed in the guest room. An initial viewing from the living room windows had revealed a hazy sun casting a glow over Docklands, bringing the promise of fine weather. She was humming an old favourite song, Sunday Girl by Blondie, and was cheerfully looking forward to the day ahead.

  In the western suburbs, Donovan was also up and about. He had followed his usual routine of opening the stern doors of XO2 and stepping out onto the deck for a blast of fresh air. In the background he was aware of the distant hum of traffic. As he breathed in, he checked over the boat, saw that his bike was padlocked in place on the roof under its all-weather cover and made a cursory inspection of the mooring ropes. Everything was as it should be. In half an hour he would ride off to the university for a long session in the editing suite. With luck, he would have his material completed by the end of the afternoon. It would be a normal day.

  *

  The day unfolded as planned. By early afternoon Marnie had dealt with all the outstanding matters in the office at Glebe Farm and phoned for a taxi to take her to the station. Issuing last-minute instructions to Dolly the cat while Rajeev the driver loaded her bag into the boot of the cab, Marnie looked around her at the honey-coloured stone buildings of the cottages and barns and at the farmhouse that would soon be her home.

  Rajeev opened the rear door for Marnie to climb in.

  “Taking a break, Marnie?”

  “Going down to London to meet Ralph and bring our other boat back up.”

  “A nice trip.” A broad smile split the friendly bearded face under its dark blue turban. “You won’t be needing my services for that, then.”

  “Not unless you fit water-wings to the taxi and give us a tow.”

  Rajeev laughed. “Now you’re giving me ideas. A new business opportunity.”

  Marnie looked back through the rear window at Dolly washing herself outside the office barn, as the taxi crunched over the gravel beside the courtyard, turned onto the field track and left Glebe Farm behind.

  *

  Anne had looked in on the building site on her way to the tube that morning. The students had just arrived and were being briefed by Zoë. She caught sight of Anne outside the perimeter fence and waved before turning back to the group.

  After spending the morning in the British Museum examining the medieval collections, Anne sat out on the steps to eat a sandwich. The sun was high in the sky and all around the classical front of the museum people were sitting and lying about, enjoying the fine weather.

  She wondered if some day there would be a new exhibition devoted to the long-lost treasure of King John, with explanatory panels telling the story of how the royal regalia were discovered by a brilliant young archaeologist. Perhaps there might even be an audio-visual display produced by Donovan, showing Dick Blackwood at work, raising the finds from the sea. She imagined Dick talking to camera, explaining his research and describing the more important finds.

  There was one more section of the museum that she wanted to visit, the treasures of the Sutton Hoo ship burial. She had saved that till last, wanting to gain an idea of how the museum might in future display Dick’s collection.

  These were exciting times.

  *

  Ralph was keen to complete an article for The Economist magazine for which he had a deadline at the end of the week, so Marnie arranged to visit a friend in Little Venice. Mrs Jolly was an old lady who lived opposite Sally Ann’s former mooring near Maida Hill tunnel.

  “Come in, come in, my dear. I was just trying to work out how long it’s been since you were last here …”

  Amid much hugging and general fussing, Mrs Jolly led Marnie through to the small, walled courtyard garden at the rear of the townhouse.

  “The kettle’s on and I’m making tea, or you can have coffee of course, if you’d prefer …”

  Under a vine-covered pergola and surrounded by cascades of climbing and rambling roses that filled the air with their fragrance, Mrs Jolly had laid the table for afternoon tea.

  “I have Darjeeling, which I know you like, and there are slices of lemon. Of course, some purists would insist on Ceylon tea with lemon …”

  As her friend chattered on, Marnie smiled at the sight of sandwiches of white bread filled with salmon and pâté, each cut into neat triangles with their crusts removed. Beyond them, a mound of scones waited patiently beside a cut glass dish of raspberry jam – no doubt homemade – and a crock of clotted cream. To complete the scene, in the place of honour, stood a cake that Marnie guessed was coffee and walnut. Serene and magnificent, crowned with butter icing, it commanded the centre of the table.

  “Oh, Marnie, I’m so delighted to see you again. I suspect you haven’t been down to London because you’ve been busy. I do hope you haven’t been working too hard …”

  By way of reply, Marnie turned and hugged the old lady, who smelled faintly of lavender. Just to be with Mrs Jolly again was like visiting a favourite aunt.

  “It’s wonderful to be back, Mrs Jolly. But tell me something.”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “What time do they arrive?”

  Mrs Jolly looked puzzled. “Who do you mean?”

  Marnie indicated the table at which only two places had been set. “The bridge club … or are you expecting your late
husband’s old regiment for a reunion?”

  The old lady chuckled. “Perhaps I have gone a little over the top. But today is a special occasion.” She kissed Marnie on the cheek. “And you are a very special visitor, my dear. Come, have a seat. Tell me all about your marvellous project in Docklands. And will you take the Darjeeling?”

  *

  It was a day for visitors. Donovan had worked solidly in the university editing suite all day. When he arrived the early morning cleaners were still at work in the department, and it was almost five o’clock before he was ready to leave. He had survived on a cheese roll and a cup of coffee in the studio at lunchtime and was looking forward to dinner with his friends.

  In twenty minutes he was back at his mooring and lifted the bike into place on the roof under its cover. He did not bother to make it secure, as he would be putting it inside the boat before setting off by tube for Docklands.

  He was taking fresh clothes from the locker before having a shower, when he became aware of movement on the towpath. Occasional joggers or passers-by were not unusual, but there was something about the sounds he heard that seemed out of place. It was as if a whole crowd of people was gathering outside. He moved closer to the porthole to take a sideways look through the curtain. At that moment there came a loud knocking on the stern door. No-one was visible through the porthole, and for a few seconds he ran over his options. They were very limited.

  “Who is it?” he called through the door, hastily dragging off his clothes. “I’m taking a shower.”

  “Police!” came the reply. “Open the door.”

  “Hold on,” he called back.

  Racing to the bathroom, he turned on the shower, hung his clothes on the door and wrapped a towel round his waist. He turned off the shower and padded back to the stern, where he pushed open one of the doors. Two men were standing on the stern deck, staring down at him.

  “I was just about to …” Donovan squinted up at them. “Can I see some ID, please.”

  The nearer man began reaching into his pocket. Beyond them, Donovan saw several uniformed officers grouped together on the towpath. He made a gesture with his hands.

  “It’s okay. No need to bother with the ID.” He immediately recognised Cathy Lamb, then hastily adjusted his towel to make sure it was secure. “What can I do for you?”