Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  Jane suddenly looked serious. “Did you hear the news on the radio?”

  “News?”

  “You remember the crate they dragged out of the pool in Little Venice?”

  “The murder.”

  Jane nodded. “Unless he’d chopped himself into bits, jumped into the box and floated off for a jolly wheeze.”

  Marnie grimaced. Jane continued.

  “Well, it seems the police have identified the victim.”

  “Leroy Monroe,” Derek chipped in. “In his thirties, heavily involved in drugs. A gangland killing.”

  Marnie recalled Jane’s words: This is not gangland. She frowned. “Strange way to conceal a body, leaving it floating around in the canal.”

  “Ah, but that wasn’t the idea, apparently. This was intended as a very public warning to his gang.”

  “God, how awful! To think he was in there all that time.”

  Derek topped up Marnie’s glass. “Sorry, perhaps we shouldn't be going on about this when you're just starting a long journey … alone.”

  Jane agreed. “No, perhaps not. But I don't think Marnie's the nervous type. Are you, Marnie?”

  “Probably not, but I'd prefer to give murderers a miss, if possible.”

  Jane held up her empty glass. “Derek, what about opening another bottle? This red’s not bad.”

  Marnie made to stand up. “Not on my account. I'm supposed to be on the journey of a lifetime. So far I've made it to the supermarket.”

  Leaving her friends to do their own shopping, Marnie returned to Sally Ann, her head filled with thoughts of the body in the box. She made a decision. Much as she liked Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse books, she would not be reading his canal murder story for a while.

  Time for another decision. She had had a few glasses of wine, nothing to eat and dusk was coming on. She would tie up for the night, have a bite and make an early start in the morning. On the other hand, it did seem pathetic to spend her first night virtually in a supermarket car park. She thought she should at least chug over to the opposite bank.

  Slightly further on, she spotted a grassy patch between the trees where she could hop off and knock mooring pins into the ground. It offered a good view of the gasworks. After tying up, she stood on the bank enjoying the quiet and the mild evening air. An armada of ducks cruised by to explore the prospects for dinner. Behind her, there was a rustling in the bushes. Marnie ignored it, went inside and lit the oven. By the time she had wrapped a salmon steak in foil with a little butter, a bay leaf and a sprinkling of chopped onion, she had forgotten the sound completely.

  Once the salad was made and a chunk of French bread was warming, Marnie debated with herself whether to have a glass of dry white wine with the meal. It was a close vote, and she looked out at the gathering dusk as she reached into the drawer for the corkscrew.

  She took her wine out on deck while the fish baked, its smell mingling in the air with the scent of the vegetation and the cool breath coming from the water. Marnie perched on the stern rail and took a sip, feeling more free than she had been for years.

  There was no towpath by the cemetery where Sally Ann was moored, just an unkempt bank with trees overhanging the water's edge and a high brick wall. Further back, the wall gave way to tall railings. Marnie knew the tombs of several eminent Victorians were nearby. Thackeray was there, she thought, and Trollope, Wilkie Collins and Leigh Hunt, their graves set in amongst the bushes and trees. Hardly a sound reached her, only a distant murmur of traffic.

  She lit the oil lamps and sat down to eat, reading a cruising guide, planning her next day. One lamp went out almost immediately. After she had finished eating, it was cool enough to refill. Screwing the top on the oil bottle, Marnie thought she saw movement outside. She stood quite still, making a determined effort not to think of dismembered bodies floating in crates.

  Curiosity led her out onto the stern deck, grabbing the torch from its hook by the door. All was silent in the darkness.

  Was this going to be the pattern for the whole summer, she wondered, creeping about, fearful of her own reflection in the window? Or was this just sensible caution, obeying a deep-rooted instinct to be wary and alert in strange surroundings? She told herself to do something practical and stepped ashore to check the mooring ropes.

  At the bow end Marnie stood up quickly from inspecting the rope, and the sudden movement made her dizzy. She stopped to let the feeling pass, holding on to the roof rail. Through the windows she saw the light fade in the saloon as the second oil lamp went out. She walked to the stern, flashing the torch briefly to check that the mooring pin was firm.

  Back on board, not wanting the glare of the electric lights, she groped her way in darkness past the sleeping berth and into the galley. She knew the exact location of the oil lamp that she had refilled. The Zippo lay on the work-surface and she flicked it on to light the dual wicks, carefully replacing the globe and chimney, leaving the flames at their lowest setting to allow the glass to warm up slowly.

  It was while she adjusted the lamplight that Marnie became aware of a change in the cabin. She looked up, at first sensing the movement before her eyes had focused. The intruder must have gained entry while she was inspecting the bow-ropes. Now they faced each other across the galley and the saloon.

  In the glow of the lamplight, Marnie found herself looking into the eyes, the unblinking amber eyes, of a sturdy black cat.

  18

  Visitor

  Saturday, and the bows of Sally Ann were cutting through the water at a steady four miles per hour heading westwards on that first cool morning of the Great Journey. Marnie had made an early start as planned. It was just after six, a mug of coffee stood on the hatch, steam faintly rising, and she was yawning at the tiller. London was just waking, and she had escaped.

  She had hurriedly washed and dressed, checked over the boat, given the cat some milk and sent it home. This would be her daily routine from now on until the end of summer. Correction. This would be the routine, apart from dealing with the cat.

  Marnie had been surprised the previous evening to find the unexpected black shape on board. Under interrogation it had revealed nothing, but had simply paused in washing itself, blinked at her and continued licking its foreleg. It had been a one-sided conversation.

  Where could it have come from? On this side of the canal there was only the cemetery. Marnie knew little about cats and wondered whether they had wide-ranging territories. This was no feral creature. It was calm, placid, relaxed. It even allowed itself to be stroked gently on the head and began purring, bringing a homely feeling to the saloon that went well with the lamplight.

  Marnie was encouraged enough by this reaction to look for a collar. She reached forward to touch its neck while it was distracted with washing its chest. In one continuous movement it inclined its head slightly and licked her hand. The unaccustomed roughness of the tongue on her skin made Marnie withdraw, and the cat resumed its ablutions. There was no collar. There was also no chance she would let it stay on the boat.

  The cat allowed Marnie to pick it up and carry it to the door.

  “It's been nice knowing you. Now off you go home like a good cat.”

  She set it down gently on the deck and reached out to shut the doors. Immediately, the cat turned and skipped back into the cabin before Marnie could react.

  “Hey! Come on! You've got to go home. They'll be wondering where you are.”

  The cat was back on the chair, turning round and round as a prelude to curling up. Marnie had no intention of abducting someone's pet. She resolved to take firm action.

  After the third attempt to get the cat to stay out, it occurred to her that it might be wanting something and she suspected that might be milk. It surprised her that the cat showed no inclination to rush at the saucer, but took its time to approach and sniff at it. When the saucer was licked clean, Marnie picked the cat up carefully and placed it determinedly outside on the stern deck. She had made it quite clear who was
in charge and was pleased to have had her first visitor of the journey and to have sorted out the first problem.

  When Marnie woke early in the strange bed, she remembered the events of the night before. She leaned out and looked towards the saloon. The cat was curled up on its chair, fast asleep. Marnie washed and dressed. When she slid back the hatch to let the morning in, the air was cool and clean on her face. She lit the gas under the kettle and popped a croissant in the oven, her mind on the journey ahead. All this time the cat did not stir.

  Marnie poured some milk into a saucer.

  “Breakfast! Come on, cat. Time to get up … and go home.”

  The cat yawned and stretched, looked briefly at Marnie and jumped down. When the milk was gone it walked slowly through the cabin and stood by the stern doors. It had got the message. Marnie stroked its head and let it out.

  “So long! See you when I get back, perhaps.”

  The cat placed its front paws on the gunwale, looked from side to side and jumped ashore, walking off into the undergrowth, tail held high. Marnie smiled. A visit from a black cat. Must be a good omen.

  Gary woke early that Saturday morning to find Sheena looking at him, her head nestled on the pillow. He smiled. There was a delay of some seconds before she smiled back.

  “You all right?” His voice sounded croaky and he cleared his throat.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sleep okay?”

  “So-so.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “What’s bothering you, Gary?”

  “Me? Bothering me? You’re the one who’s acting strange.”

  “You’ve been rolling around all night.”

  “I’ve been –”

  “And you’ve been muttering things.”

  His face clouded. “What things?”

  “Dunno. Couldn’t make ’em out. What’s up, Gary?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing if it means I go around yawning all day at work with dark circles under my eyes.”

  “Must’ve been something I ate, disagreed with me.”

  “We both had the same. The only thing likely to disagree with you is me.”

  “Look, I don’t know what it was, okay? It was just a bad night, no big deal. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “I thought we had a … relationship.”

  “We have, sweetheart.”

  “I thought we were getting close. If we aren’t, I don’t know what I’m doing in this bed.”

  “We are, ’course we are. You know that.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Gary propped himself up on one elbow and squinted at the clock. Still early. He had no excuse that he had to rush and put it off till later.

  “Talk to me, Gary. You’re worrying me.”

  He dropped back onto the pillow and put an arm round Sheena’s waist. “Where do I begin?”

  “Try the beginning.”

  He told her about the encounters with the stranger with the gravelly voice, fearing that once Sheena made the connection with the body in the crate and the gangland war she would be up and away forever. She made no comment about Gravel and waited for him to continue. He told her about Old Peter and his presumed valuables, how he was trying to find out what they might be. He did not mention Marnie.

  When he stopped, Sheena turned her head on the pillow to look up at the ceiling. “So this bloke with the gravelly voice thinks the old man’s got something worth a lot of money stashed away. If he has, it must be on his boat or in his caravan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why not just break in and search the place?”

  Gary jumped. “What? You can’t be serious. I’m not some kind of burglar.”

  “Not you, Gary, him … or his thuggy mate. Why don’t they just check out the caravan while the old man’s away from his place?”

  “In broad daylight?”

  Sheena turned to face him again. “Who’s gonna see anything down there? You said it was under a bridge, tucked out of sight.”

  “Ye-e-es.”

  “Well, then?”

  “I’m not sure I follow this. You think I should tell Gravel to get his mate to break in?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m wondering why Gravel doesn’t just get on with it.”

  “Don’t suppose we’ll ever know the answer to that.”

  “We already do, dibbo.” Sheena punched him lightly under the duvet. “It’s obvious.”

  Gary was bewildered. “Is it?” Sheena was a sales assistant in a small chemist’s shop and she was talking like a fully paid-up member of the Mob. “So what is the answer?”

  “He can’t be seen in public.”

  “Mm.”

  Sheena looked thoughtful. “The real question is, why not?”

  “And I suppose you’ve got that worked out, too?”

  “He’s worried about being recognised, obviously, especially now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. The police have been all over Little Venice and Maida Vale while you were away, since they found out who that body was in the crate you pulled out of the canal.”

  “That’s why he’s lying low, why I haven’t seen him.” Then, a sudden thought. “They found out who it was in the crate? Who was it?”

  “Leroy Monroe.”

  “Never heard of him. Have you?”

  “No, ’course not. Gary, how would I know a gangster?”

  “You remembered his name well enough.”

  “Gary, I’m a shop assistant. I work in a chemist’s. I’m not some gangster’s Moll.”

  “So how come you remember his name?”

  Sheena smiled coyly. “Easy. Monroe’s like Marilyn Monroe. One of my boyfriends used to say I looked like Marilyn Monroe when she was young.”

  Gary felt the first stirrings of carnal interest. “Good point.”

  “Only I’m not as voluptuous as her. It’s one of my favourite words, voluptuous.”

  “And Leroy?”

  “Well, that’s different.” The coy smile again.

  “Don’t tell me he thought you looked like someone called Leroy.”

  She giggled. “It’s one of my favourite names. I’ve sometimes thought that, well, if ever I had a little boy … I might like to call him Leroy.”

  Gary frowned. Leroy! The situation was worse than he had imagined.

  Sheena laughed. “I know what you were thinking.”

  “What was I thinking?”

  “Over my dead body.”

  Gary laughed too. “Yeah, great choice of words. Blimey, is that the time?” Gary grabbed the alarm clock and stared at it. He flicked the duvet aside and leapt out of bed. “I’d better be getting up. Gotta see a man about a job.”

  Sheena sat up and stretched. “Did I say something that scared you, Gary?”

  He looked at her as he grabbed his jeans from the floor. She was naked, and for a moment his resolve faltered. “No. It’s just –”

  “This Gravel bloke has got to you, hasn’t he? Did he threaten you?”

  “No, well, not in actual words.”

  “Did he ask you to do anything you couldn’t do?”

  “Not really. He just told me about Old Peter’s valuables.”

  “And?”

  “Just said he wanted me to get my head round it.”

  Sheena shrugged. “That’s all right, then.”

  Gary pulled a sweatshirt over his head. “Not quite. The trouble is, I get the feeling that when he tells me to get my head round something, he could be thinking of an axe.”

  Marnie steered Sally Ann through a district where factories went on for miles. Crossing the aqueduct over the North Circular Road, the contrast stunned her. There she was, suspended high above the dual carriageway in her boat, using a waterway from the eighteenth century, while below her the morning traffic trundled along, most drivers unaware that the aqueduct existed at all. It seemed to Marnie indecent that she had so much space all to herself. And it felt like
she was playing truant.

  At mid-morning Marnie slowed to a crawl for the right-hand turn at Bull's Bridge. She inched round the corner, ears pricked, ready to throw Sally into reverse and bring her to a sudden halt. But there was no other boat, and she turned quietly under the bridge, straightened the tiller and increased power.

  Marnie had made the first change of course of the journey, normal life was receding and she was on her way on the main line of the Grand Union Canal. She weighed each word as she said the name to herself.

  The Grand Union Canal.

  It had a grand sound, promising to unite her with waterways the length of England and beyond into Wales.

  Gary had almost stopped in his tracks as he reached for the door handle, when Sheena squeezed past him on her way to the shower. He wanted to grab her and drag her back to the sleeping cabin. With enormous self-control he had forced himself to open the door. Sheena reminded him she had to be at work by nine o’clock and promised to have breakfast ready for when he returned,

  It was seven-thirty and overcast when he walked rapidly towards Sally Ann’s mooring. He covered the distance in two minutes. His shoulders sagged; the boat was gone. Marnie had already left. Damn!

  He cursed himself for believing the silly old biddy who had told him Marnie had only gone shopping. Now, there was no-one around to ask. He scratched his chin. Or was there? He retraced his steps at double-quick time. Sheena was not the only one who could work things out.

  Of one thing he was certain. Marnie and Old Peter were in cahoots, up to something together. It was weird. Everything was changing. Women were different these days, he thought. They were calling the shots.

  He thought of Sheena with her beautiful body, meticulous grooming, perfect white teeth. He knew what she wanted. Not much doubt there. And Marnie, also attractive, well-groomed, smart – when she wasn’t up to her elbows in paint or grease. What did she want? In particular, what did she want from Old Peter? To that question he was convinced there could be only one answer.