by Leo McNeir
She bundled the clothing back into its box, stowed it in the boot of the Escort and drove into town. On the way, she stopped at a phone box to ring Malcolm.
“How was your discussion, interesting?”
“Yes. Quite interesting, but not the sort of thing to talk about on the phone. Can we meet?”
“I have a lot on today, but we could get together.”
“Unfortunately, I've got a lunch engagement that I can't put off,” said Malcolm.
“If you buy me any more meals, they'll change your title to Lord Egon of Ronay.”
“It's my pleasure, Marnie, but today's a problem. Now, where shall we meet? My lunch appointment's near the Commons. Are you able to come into the centre?”
“I've got a hire car. Parking will be difficult.”
“That's no worry. I can park it in the Commons. It's only the restaurants that aren't open this week. The car park's available.”
They agreed to meet in Whitehall and have coffee round the corner from Parliament. Malcolm took the car in through Carriage Gate while Marnie walked slowly to the St Stephen's entrance to meet him. He guided her to a small café a few minutes away, and they settled into a corner where they could talk.
Marnie sensed at once that something was troubling Malcolm. He had shaken her hand when they met, seemed to be avoiding eye contact, and was more distant than usual. She waited until after the coffee arrived before speaking.
“What's happened, Malcolm? You seem rather pre-occupied. I don't mean to pry, but was it anything that came up at your meeting?”
“Marnie, I was thinking that with all that's happened, your car and so on, perhaps it would be an idea if we put the redecoration of my flat on hold for the moment, until things have settled down.”
“Oh. I see.” She did not see. “Actually, Malcolm, I don't understand. The bombing of my car can't have anything to do with decorating your flat. How could it?”
Malcolm stirred his coffee. Marnie realised that someone had got at him. “Well …” he began.
“Surely you don’t think I have anything to do with terrorists?” she said. “You don’t really believe I’m involved in anything like that?” Or did he think she could be involved in the death of Tim Edmonds? That was a question she could not bring herself to ask.
Malcolm looked up. “No. I don’t believe that.”
“Well, you’re right. I had absolutely no connection with it. It was just by chance that I happened to be passing, just as it was purely by chance that I met you in the Commons.”
“And just by chance that your car was targeted for a bomb? You must admit, Marnie, it all looks very odd, to an external observer, to say the least.”
“You said you believed me.”
“I do. But to the suspicious minds of the police, it must seem that you’re connected with something very strange. Most people don’t just find bodies of VIPs and then get their cars blown up shortly afterwards. Surely you see that, Marnie.”
She suddenly saw her position from the outside, as the police must see her. It all looked highly suspicious, and she wondered what action the police might take next. “But you believe me?”
He hesitated. “Yes, I do. The problem is what the police think.”
“I see. Do you think they could cause trouble for me?”
“Not while I’m around.” He put his hand on hers across the table.
Marnie eased her hand away and sat up straight. “I’m not sure you should get too involved.”
“I am already. And the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that Tim's death and the bombing of your car have to be no coincidence.”
Marnie felt trapped. It was like being drawn into some dangerous game that she did not want to play, with rules she did not know or understand. It was all unfathomable and seemed so unfair. “What has any of this got to do with me?”
“Have you ever had any contact with terrorism, Marnie?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I haven't. I'm an interior designer, for God's sake. People don’t get that violent about soft furnishings. They just ask us to choose a different colour scheme. We’re not normally regarded as a bad insurance risk. Talking of which, my insurance company could cause problems if they can claim the bomb was a terrorist weapon. I’m sure they’ll try and screw me if they can. Oh, sorry, that must have sounded really vulgar.”
“You could never be vulgar, Marnie.” Malcolm had a twinkle in his eye. He touched her hand again. “But you've never had contact with terrorists before?”
“The nearest I've come is a restaurant I'm doing. It was partly burnt down. The police suspected arson. I've been there once or twice. That's all. It's absurd to think I could be involved with terrorists. I'm the victim, remember. It's my wretched car that was destroyed.” While protesting her innocence of any link with men of violence, Marnie felt a strong desire to hit Malcolm, preferably with a blunt instrument.
“I agree, though of course …”
“Though of course what?”
“Well, you do associate with Ralph Lombard.”
“Ralph? So?”
Malcolm spread the fingers of one hand. “He is known as a radical.”
“Nonsense!”
“Marnie, he wrote several articles and books about student revolts in Europe in the 60s. He was popular with the underground left and was a personal friend of some of the leaders of the Provos in Amsterdam. He wrote a book about them just before he produced We're going wrong, and that was a blatant Marxist tract.”
“But that doesn't link him with terrorists. You don't think he would have done this to me?”
“No, but his enemies might, as a means of getting at him.”
“Why?”
“The underworld is riven with factions, Marnie. I think you may be out of your depth. There's more going on here than meets the eye. We'll find out more when the army have had a chance to look at the bomb.”
“But the car was blown to bits. Surely there'll be nothing to look at.”
Malcolm looked at her quizzically.
“I am out of my depth,” said Marnie. Malcolm nodded.
*
There was a chilly wind gusting up Victoria Street as they made their way back towards the Commons. They walked with heads bent forward.
“I’m sorry the police aren't making more progress,” said Marnie. “I really want them to find who did it. I wish I could help more.”
“So do I. I keep asking myself if there is something I could do that would help.”
“If what you told me is all you know, I don’t see how you could provide any more information. You were really only involved on the periphery.”
“I’ve thought about almost nothing else since it happened, Marnie. But I must say I’ve thought a lot about you these past days. It’s been good to have you around to share it all, though it does seem unfair on you.”
Marnie was unsure how to take this. “What does your wife think of all this?”
“Pauline? Of course, I’ve talked to her about it, mainly on the phone, but it’s not like having someone around who knows about things from close range. Cumbria's a long way away.”
“Was she also a good friend of Tim?”
“Not really. They got on okay, but she always had a reservation about him after the scandal.”
“Doesn't she come to London?”
“Hardly ever. She’s a county councillor and prefers life in the Lake District. A country girl at heart.” They paused at the kerb waiting for a gap in the traffic. Malcolm looked at Marnie with a serious expression. “You do realise that talking like this could lead you into danger, I mean, getting a politician to talk about himself could be terminally boring.”
Marnie smiled. She found herself liking him more each time they met, like a pleasant uncle. She hoped his view of her was suitably avuncular. “I'd been thinking that I ought to talk to your wife about the decor of the flat, when we eventually get back to that subject, if we do. She'll have v
iews about colour schemes and things, I expect.”
The traffic lights changed and they moved off across the road. “Oh no, I don't think so,” said Malcolm. “Pauline's not in the least interested in what goes on down here. We tend to lead separate lives. We're very compartmentalised.”
“Is she excited about being Lady Grant? Sorry to pry into your private life.”
“That's all right. I expect she likes the idea of the title more than I do, goes down well with the tweed jacket and pleated skirt brigade, and the various county committees. Pauline has her own life up there. It suits her. I prefer to be here. I feel that you and I have the same approach. You could say we're in the same boat. That's quite appropriate for you, really.”
I'm not even in the same boat these days, Marnie thought, pulling up her collar against the cold air.
Malcolm suddenly stopped in the street. “Marnie, there's something else I should've told you.”
“It can't be any worse than telling me I'm suspected of being mixed up in terrorism, or that I have a friend who associates with violent revolutionaries.”
“I think I'm a suspect in Tim's murder,” said Malcolm.
“Is that something new? I thought we both believed we were being regarded as suspects.”
Malcolm shook his head. “It's one thing to have an idea that the police are treating you as involved in a matter. You can tell yourself they treat everyone like that, force of habit, or just their way of working. Realising they actually suspect you, that's something else.”
“I see. Did they tell you that at Scotland Yard?”
“Not exactly, but the tone of the meeting left me in little doubt.”
“What did they say? Did they accuse you of anything?”
“They questioned me about that evening, the evening of his death.”
“But you weren't there, were you?”
“I couldn't prove it, Marnie. Even you said you thought you might've seen someone on the footpath. Who's to say it wasn't me?”
“It was just a fleeting impression. It might only have been a shadow. I may have been wrong. If there was someone, the police can't prove who that person was.”
“Which gets us nowhere and still leaves me as a suspect.”
“Can't you prove you were somewhere else? Is there no way of demonstrating that? Where were you in fact, if you don't mind me asking?”
“Look, we can't stand here like this in the street.”
“No. And you've got your lunch appointment, don't forget.”
Malcolm took Marnie by the arm and guided her towards the West Front of Westminster Abbey. Leading her along the pavement beside the great cathedral, he nodded in the direction of St Margaret's church. “Let's go inside for a few minutes. We should be able to get some peace and quiet.” Marnie let herself be led, thinking peace and quiet, some hopes!
Inside, the church was empty, and they sat at the end of the last row of pews. It was exactly where Malcolm had been sitting, head bowed and grieving, when Marnie had first seen him at the Christmas Carol service.
Malcolm began, his voice little more than a whisper. “They asked me to explain exactly what I was doing that evening. I told them Tim was coming to see me in the flat, and I was there waiting for him to arrive. When he didn't turn up after about an hour, I rang his home and left a message on the answerphone. That was how the police knew I was expecting him. My message led them to me.”
“It's a pity you did that, really. If you hadn't done so, they would never have made the connection.”
“Maybe not, but I would've told them about our meeting when they asked people to come forward with information.”
“I suppose so. Were you worried when he didn't show up?”
“Not especially. I just wanted to check we both had the right day. Things crop up all the time in our world. It's not unusual. But I suppose I thought it was odd he hadn't rung to let me know.”
“Not in character for him to be negligent when you'd invited him round?”
“Actually, Marnie, I hadn't invited him. That made it even stranger. He'd asked if he could come and see me.”
“For a particular reason or was it just a social call, deliver your Christmas card and have a drink, perhaps?”
“No idea. I never found out. He didn't say what it was. I didn't even speak to him. He sent a message.”
“Did you get the impression it was something urgent?”
Malcolm looked into the distance. “Come to think of it, that is possible.”
“Can you remember what it said?”
“I knew he was going on a skiing holiday with a girl-friend, and I think he said he wanted to talk to me before he left. It was something like that. Not much to go on, really.”
“I don't suppose you've got this note?”
“Doubt it.”
“Pity.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, it would prove something, I suppose, corroborate your story.”
“In what way?”
“It would bear out your statement that he'd asked to see you. And, combined with your answerphone message, it would show that you were likely to be waiting in your flat. What kind of message was it? A betting slip?”
“No. Typed I think.”
“Signed or pp'd?”
“I think it was signed. Tim's secretary was on maternity leave, so he had a series of temps. They wouldn't have permission to pp any of his correspondence.”
“Do you know her name?”
Malcolm shook his head. “It'd be Charlotte or Samantha or whatever. Our lot are always called something like that. Somebody's daughter.”
“I know it's not much proof, but if the message was signed by Tim, that must mean something. It would all hang together, wouldn't it?”
“I see what you're getting at, though it wouldn't really prove anything as such.”
“Better than nothing,” said Marnie. “A kind of moral support. But if you don't have the message …”
“I hadn't really thought seriously about it. Perhaps it could still be there, in the bin in my office.”
“From before Christmas? Wouldn't it have been emptied?”
“Not necessarily.”
*
Malcolm's office was in a different part of the House of Commons from Michael Blissett's. They made their way up to the second floor in an ancient and cramped lift and walked along narrow corridors and up winding staircases until they reached a broad landing. Malcolm's door was of dark solid wood and while he reached in his pocket for the key, Marnie saw the sign: This door to be kept locked at all times.
The office was bigger than Michael Blissett's and reminded Marnie of an old-fashioned solicitor's, with panelled walls and shelves of books around an old mahogany desk. They seemed to be in a tower and through the window she could see the river and Westminster Bridge.
“Nice place.”
“Yes. From the time when I was in favour with the Whips. I came here when Maggie was in charge, of course.”
“Will you be able to stay here when you go to the Lords?”
“No. This is strictly for the Commons.” He bent down and picked up the waste bin. It was stuffed to overflowing. “If the note's still here, it could also be somewhere on my desk, I suppose.” The desk was similarly cluttered with files, notes and bundles of correspondence. Marnie wondered what Linda the redoubtable PA would make of it all. Or Anne, come to that.
“Why don't I search the bin and you do your desk?” said Marnie. “That way, I'll only handle items that have been thrown out, and you can deal with papers that may be confidential.”
“Very diplomatically put, Marnie. Let's do just that.”
Marnie sat in a chair and spread out an old copy of The Times on the floor beside her. Onto this she began laying the scraps that she picked out of the bin. “Why has your office been left like this over Christmas?”
“I've been on a committee investigating Members' interests. Very delicate matter. I only let the
staff in to clean when I'm here. It's quite normal practice in the House.”
Marnie nodded and continued with her search. There were betting slips, circulars, lists. She even came across a note on paper with the heading 10 Downing Street, and it took all her willpower not to read it. She put it face down on the floor and ploughed on.
“I keep telling myself I've got to do something about this desk, tidy the blessed thing, but somehow –”
“Hey!” Marnie's cry interrupted him in full flow. “Sorry, Malcolm, but I think I've found it. Look at this.” They stood in the middle of the office and read the note.
Malcolm,
I need to see you in the next day or two before the recess. There is a matter that has to be settled and it cannot wait until we return in the new year.
I am heavily committed this week, but could see you on Sunday if that suited you. Could I come to the flat at around 5.00 pm? Can you confirm if that is convenient?
The note was clearly signed, ‘Regards, Tim' in a bold firm hand.
“Well, that rather supports your story, I think,” said Marnie. “You must definitely show that to the police.”
“You think it helps?”
“It backs up what you told them. They'll have to give you the benefit of the doubt when they see this. It shows you were telling the truth, if nothing else. I don't see what more you can do.”
“I'll certainly give it to them, Marnie. But don't hold out too many hopes.”
Marnie read the note again. “Have you no idea what he wanted to talk to you about?”