Stick in the Mud: A riveting murder mystery

by Leo McNeir

  The nearer man held up a piece of paper. “I am DS Rigby, Metropolitan Police, accompanied by DS Marriner and DC Lamb from Northants. We have a warrant to search these premises … er, this boat. We’re coming on board.”

  “Okay. May I see that, please?”

  Donovan took the paper and read it quickly. He handed it back to Rigby.

  “Can I put some clothes on? Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes, but one of my officers will have to be in attendance.”

  Donovan flashed a brief smile in the direction of Cathy Lamb. “Do I get to choose which one?”

  “Please step aside, sir … now.”

  Donovan backed away and walked quickly towards the bathroom where he hastily put his clothes back on. He emerged to find the boat filled with policemen.

  “Can I get something from my bag?” Donovan asked.

  Rigby nodded, carefully watching his every movement. Donovan took out his wallet and extracted his German ID card.

  “You’ll want to see this, I think.”

  Rigby examined it before handing it back.

  “Am I allowed to know what you’re looking for?” Donovan asked. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  “That could count in your favour.”

  Donovan realised he was no longer being addressed as sir. His mind was running in overdrive, trying to work out what lay behind this intrusion. Watching the police quietly and efficiently going about their business, he made a supreme effort to present a calm exterior.

  “So what is it you’re looking for exactly?”

  Another plain clothes officer turned from the bookcase. “Are these your books?”

  Donovan resisted the temptation to point out that they were on his shelves, on his boat. “Yes.”

  “They’re in German, aren’t they?”

  “Some of them.”

  The officer took out one volume. “This is by Adolf Hitler.”

  Donovan nodded. “Mein Kampf. It’s his autobiography in which he sets out his political doctrine.”

  The two Met officers looked at each other. Then they looked at Donovan. He was everyone’s idea of Aryan youth: slim, with blonde hair and blue eyes.

  “Is that what you’re looking for?” Donovan said. “It’s not illegal to possess it in this country.”

  “Sympathetic to the cause, are you?” said Rigby.

  “My boat has been compared with a U-boat, but that doesn’t necessarily –”

  “Sir.” A constable called across to his superior. He pointed at a set of shelves on the wall.

  The detectives turned their attention to that part of the cabin. The unit was painted black. On the lower two shelves an attractive art deco coffee service was set out. The top shelf held three cameras lined up at an angle. The officers recognised the iconic design of the Leicas even before they saw the name.

  “These are your property?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have receipts for them?”

  Donovan shook his head. “No. They’re very old. I inherited them from a member of my family.”

  “German?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly, both detectives homed in on three photographs mounted on the side panel of the shelving unit. They were old colour prints of silver racing cars from the 1930s, Mercedes-Benz and Auto Union. Each photo bore a faded signature. But it was not the impressive machines that had attracted their attention, rather the emblem clearly visible on the headrest of the middle car. It was a red circle surrounding a black swastika.

  “He took these photos, did he, this member of your family?”

  “He was a photo-journalist before the war,” Donovan confirmed.

  “I don’t suppose he got a snap or two of old Adolf, did he?”

  Donovan was wondering where this conversation was going. He already suspected that it was linked with the killing of Garth Brandon, hence the presence of Marriner and Lamb. But were they interested in him as a possible Nazi or as an anti-Nazi? His best option was to tell the truth as far as possible and see where that led. If they were pursuing him as a potential Nazi, he had enough witnesses in Northamptonshire to swear that he was nothing of the sort.

  “Adolf Hitler?” Donovan said. “I’m not sure, though it is possible. My great-uncle certainly photographed Hermann Goering and other members of the top hierarchy of the Third Reich.”

  “Are you proud of what he did?”

  Donovan thought of his great-uncle, an honourable man who defied the Nazis and one day just disappeared, never to be seen again.

  “He did what he believed was right,” he said, looking the detective straight in the eye.

  “Mr Smith,” Rigby said, turning to walk back through the boat, “would you come this way, please. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Donovan was immediately on his guard. He knew the police had sometimes been accused of planting drugs or other compromising evidence on people they wanted to arrest. Could such reports be true? The officer beckoned him towards the stern doors. Once again playing for time to collect his thoughts, Donovan stopped by the bathroom to slip a pair of sandals on his bare feet.

  Outside, he was asked to step down onto the towpath. The officer pointed at the roof of the boat, where a uniformed constable standing on the gunwale was starting to remove the waterproof cover from the bicycle.

  Donovan said, “That’s just where I keep my …”

  As the cover was pulled away, his voice tailed off when he saw what was revealed. It was a mountain bike, but not the black one he had placed there ten minutes earlier. Donovan found himself staring at an older model, its frame painted yellow, with black pawprints running either side of the name, Muddy Fox. Seeing it for the first time in two years, and never expecting to see it again, brought a lump to his throat. Donovan forced himself to stay calm. He knew he could not trust his voice, so he resorted to the best alternative. He laughed.

  “What is this?” he said eventually.

  The police officers were watching him closely.

  Rigby said, “You were about to say that’s where you keep your mountain bike, I believe.”

  “That certainly is a mountain bike,” Donovan said, “and it happens to be the same make as mine, but it’s an older model and entirely the wrong colour for me.”

  “You deny that it’s yours?”

  “We all know it isn’t mine.” Donovan was still wary, but confident now of his position.

  “What if I told you we can have you finger-printed to check your prints with those found on the bike?”

  Donovan shrugged at the trick question. “You won’t find my fingerprints on that bike.”

  “How can you be so sure of that?”

  “Simple. Because I’ve never touched it.”

  “You’ve never seen it before?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  Donovan knew he had only to suggest that they check the security cameras at the university, to prove that he had arrived and left on a black bicycle. But he said nothing, not wishing to appear too defensive or calculating.

  The confrontation on the towpath was taking on the appearance of a stand-off when an urgent voice called out from inside the cabin.

  “In here, sir!”

  The group returned to the interior, with Donovan sandwiched between the plain clothes officers while two constables hovered close behind on the towpath. Donovan knew what to expect as soon as he saw a policeman kneeling beside the bed.

  “What is it?” said Rigby.

  “There’s a metal box concealed under here, sir. It’s locked.”

  Rigby turned to Donovan, an inquisitive expression on his face. Without a word, Donovan reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bunch of keys. Singling out one of them, he passed the bunch to Rigby, who gave it to the constable. A few moments passed while the man fiddled with the key in the confined space. They heard a lock turn and the sound of a container springing open. When the constable extricated himself from under the bed, he
was clutching another iconic German shape. In his hand, wrapped in a yellow duster, was a Luger pistol.

  The police stared at Donovan whose expression remained inscrutable. He broke the silence.

  “The answer to your first question, Mr Rigby, is yes, it is my pistol. The answer to your second question is yes, I do have a licence for it. You’ll find the firearms certificate in a slot inside the container. I have no ammunition.”

  The kneeling constable laid the Luger on the duvet and returned under the bed.

  “And the answer to my third question?” said Rigby.

  Donovan knew exactly what the third question would be, but did not want to appear too clever. He remained silent.

  Rigby reached down for the Luger and held it up in the cloth. “Why do you have such a thing at all?”

  “A memento from the war.”

  “It belonged to your great-uncle?”

  Donovan shook his head. “No. It was found in my grandfather’s house afterwards, along with an Iron Cross … second class. My father kept them as memorabilia, together with my great-uncle’s medals from the Great War. You’ll find them in a box in the bottom drawer of my desk.”

  “We already have,” said Rigby.

  “The answer to your fourth question,” said Donovan, “is yes, by all means, you can take the pistol for testing.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Rigby’s tone was stern.

  Donovan was on his guard. “You don’t want to take it?”

  “I don’t need to ask the question. We’re taking it with or without your permission.”

  *

  In the kitchen area Anne was humming contentedly to herself. She was preparing dinner, but her concentration was continuously interrupted by the desire to stare down at the river.

  Numerous classic craft were coming and going in and out of Saint Katharine Docks opposite. She surmised that some sort of event was taking place at the weekend. Her attention had first been taken by an old Thames sailing barge approaching from downstream. Two others had followed shortly afterwards, their brown sails furled as they butted through the water under engine power. Most magnificent of all had been the sight of an oyster smack under full sail, its hull low in the water, speeding away, taking advantage of a light following wind.

  Anne paused halfway through flaking smoked haddock onto a plate. She had baked it in the oven in milk in a closed dish, and it fell apart at the lightest touch. She checked the rice, which she had rinsed in cold water after boiling, then tipped into a colander to stand on top of a pan of boiling water to reheat. It was a tip she had learnt from Marnie who, in turn, had acquired it from an Indian friend in London. With six hard-boiled eggs cooling in a pan of cold water, and bowls of chopped spring onions, prawns, peanuts, parsley and potato sticks lined up ready to blend in, she was pleased to have everything under control when she heard the front door opening.

  Marnie and Ralph had barely had time to put their bags down before Anne sprang out to meet them.

  “Have you seen those lovely old barges?” she said.

  Ralph kissed her on the cheek. “We saw one as we came over the bridge. Are there more?”

  “Lots. There must be some sort of rally or race coming up.”

  “Something smells good,” Ralph observed.

  “I’m making kedgeree for dinner.”

  “Excellent. Just what I need after a hard day slaving over hot statistics.”

  “How about you, Marnie?” Anne said. “Are you hungry, too?”

  Marnie tried not to think about Mrs Jolly’s traditional English tea. The sandwiches, scones and coffee-walnut cake were not a distant memory.

  “Sounds good to me.” She hoped she sounded enthusiastic.

  Ralph was enquiring about the wine situation when the doorbell rang. He was checking the two bottles of New Zealand chardonnay in the fridge, and Marnie was washing her hands in the bathroom, when Donovan walked in. It was Anne who picked up on his demeanour.

  “Has something happened?” she asked.

  Marnie and Ralph appeared at her side. Donovan explained about the visit from the police, the search warrant and the questioning.

  “The Met and the county force working together,” Ralph said. “That’s unusual.”

  “How worrying,” Anne said. “Did you think they were going to arrest you?”

  “For legal possession of a registered weapon kept in a secure locked cabinet in accordance with the rules? For having a Muddy Fox mountain bike?” Donovan shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Even so, it must’ve been scary.”

  “My only concern was not knowing what they were looking for or why they had chosen that time to come after me.”

  “Presumably it was in connection with … Brandon?” Ralph suggested.

  “That’s my guess,” said Donovan. “But they didn’t give me any clues.”

  “How did they leave it?” Marnie asked.

  “They took the Luger away, and Rigby said I shouldn’t leave London without notifying him of my destination.”

  “Did you tell him you were coming here?”

  “Definitely not. I didn’t want to cause you any problems. Anyway, this is still London, after all.”

  “Donovan …” Marnie looked uncomfortable. “Please don’t take this the wrong way … I’m not sure how to put it … but is there any reason for being concerned about them having the Luger?”

  The question – with its implication – hung in the air as it had hovered over them for the past two years.

  “I’m not sure, to be honest,” Donovan said in a calm voice. “I don’t know what’s involved.”

  “So what happens next?” said Marnie.

  Ralph spoke first. “I think I open a bottle of wine.”

  16

  Conclusions

  Wednesday 11 July, 1997

  Marnie and Ralph took the underground back to Little Venice early on Wednesday morning. Walking up to the pool from Warwick Avenue tube station, Marnie’s eyes strayed along the towpath in the direction of a boat called Rumpole, which belonged to her solicitor and friend, Roger Broadbent. She knew Roger would not be on board at that time on a weekday, but seeing the boat gave her an idea.

  Roger was on the speed-dial of Marnie’s mobile for his home, office and mobile numbers. As she selected the first of these, she realised that storing all three numbers for her solicitor was in itself a comment on the way her life had developed in recent years.

  A woman’s voice came on the line.

  “Marjorie, good morning, it’s Marnie, Marnie Walker. Sorry to phone so early.”

  “Hallo, Marnie. Do I take it this isn’t a social call?” The friendly tone was edged with a touch of anxiety.

  “That’s right. I wonder if I might have a brief word with Roger.”

  “I think he’s just finished shaving. Hold on.”

  There was a background sound of footfall on the stairs.

  “What-ho, Marnie!” Roger was always alarmingly cheerful in the morning. “Not been arrested again, I trust?”

  “Listen, Roger, it’s about Donovan.”

  As concisely as she could, Marnie told Roger about the police raid on Donovan’s boat. When she finished the story, Roger spoke without hesitation.

  “What’s behind all this, Marnie? The police don’t just pounce on someone for no reason. Presumably it has nothing to do with the fatal accident at the building site.”

  “No. We think it’s probably connected with the Garth Brandon affair.”

  This time, Roger hesitated for some seconds before replying. “Are you suggesting that Donovan was in some way involved in that business?”

  “I’m not really suggesting anything, Roger, but it’s the only thing I can think of that would bring detectives down from the county on a joint operation.”

  “Hence the stunt with the bike-swap and their interest in the gun,” Roger said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Marnie, my advice to you as a friend is to be
very careful what you might be getting yourself into. Tell me, does this young man have a solicitor?”

  “Possibly the family has one, but they’re all in Germany. Do you think he needs one?”

  “It sounds like it to me, Marnie, and you think so, too. Otherwise you wouldn’t be ringing me before breakfast.”

  “What will happen now?”

  “That all depends on forensics. Is Donovan worried that the Luger might incriminate him?”

  “What you’re asking, Roger, is –”

  “We both know what I’m asking, Marnie. Putting it bluntly, did that pistol kill Garth Brandon?”

  Marnie took a breath. “To be honest, we’ve never broached the subject directly with Donovan. It’s not really the kind of thing you can raise in casual conversation.”

  “But I think you’ve given me my answer.”

  “Possibly,” said Marnie. “And we’re back to my question. What do we do now?”

  A pause. “Frankly, Marnie, I think we wait for the police to renew their contact with Donovan. We’re in their hands now.”

  *

  Donovan rang the number on the card left with him by DS Rigby. It was too early to catch Rigby at the station, but he left a message: if Rigby needed to speak with him that day, he would be working at the Horselydown site. He left his mobile number and disconnected. The background sound for his call was clearly the underground, making the point that he was crossing London from his mooring. He wanted to keep a distance in all senses from Marnie’s flat in Docklands.

  On arrival at the site, he half expected to find the police waiting for him by Tower Bridge. But everything seemed normal, with the students stepping down from their coach and construction work in progress. He rang Anne who told him that Marnie and Ralph were long gone and that she would meet him by the staff hut in ten minutes.

  “Oh, Donovan … is Zoë there?”

  “Haven’t seen her so far.”

  “What about Dick Blackwood?”

  “No sign.”

  “Okay. Seeya!”

  After disconnecting, Anne sat lost in her thoughts. She felt sluggish, having slept fitfully that night, worrying about Donovan. He had done all he could to cover his tracks for the past two years, ever since the death of Garth Brandon, and she had a shrewd suspicion why. She had a dread feeling that a major part of her world was about to fall apart, and there was nothing she could do about it.