by Leo McNeir
“Marnie! Thank goodness. Where have you been?”
“What do you mean? You know where I’ve been … Willards.” She smiled reassuringly. “You ticked me off your list, so it must be all right. What’s the matter?”
“I’m not joking, Marnie, I’ve been worried sick, trying to get you on the mobile, but it didn’t work.”
“Ah, the mobile.” She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled it out. “I forgot, had it switched off during the meeting.”
“Switched off?” Anne said. “I thought we agreed you’d always have it on in case of an emergency, as a lifeline.”
“That’s right. But I always switch off when I’m at Willards so that – emergency? What emergency?”
“My mum rang up. She said … Look, let me show you, then you’ll understand.”
Marnie followed Anne up the wall-ladder to her attic. Video shows in her room were becoming the latest thing. While Anne fiddled with the VCR, Marnie had a misgiving that this show might be another disaster movie.
“What are we watching?”
Without looking round Anne said, “Lunchtime news on the BBC. I’m just finding the place. I’d wound it back to the start of the tape. Won’t be a sec.”
Anne fast-forwarded to the new sequence. She moved back to sit on the bed, holding the remote out in front of her like a magic wand. The scene changed abruptly and settled down to normal speed.
Police vehicles were lined up facing an angry mob in a street. Black and grey smoke was drifting in clouds like fog. Bottles and bricks were hurtling through the air. Over to one side, a van was burning and a line of policemen in riot gear was slowly moving forward, transparent shields extended to ward off missiles. In the corner of the screen a red box was lit up with the word LIVE. As they watched the struggle, a bottle smashed at the feet of one officer and burst into flames. They set the man’s trousers alight, making him jump back, while another policeman rushed to smother the fire.
“Watch this next bit,” Anne said quickly.
The screen changed to give a view from a camera high up on a building. It was a different part of the city centre. A crowd of rioters, some of them waving flags, was rushing across the street in the shelter of cars and buses. The camera zoomed out. In the background about twenty metres away, a group of riot police was assembling. Some of the skinheads were lining up to block the traffic so that it formed a barrier across both lanes. Pedestrians could be seen fleeing into shops or diving into doorways.
Suddenly, as if at a signal, the rioters hurled petrol bombs towards the police. A dozen or more missiles exploded among them, and while the officers tried to avoid the fire and regroup, they were hit by a volley of stones and bricks. Several of them, concentrating to step round the fires, took direct hits, and one man fell to the ground. It would have been madness to remain where they were, and they withdrew to a side street, the felled man dragged away by two others.
A cheer went up from the mob, who began hammering on the roofs and bodywork of the cars. The occupants could be seen twisting and turning inside, gripped by sheer panic, all of it witnessed by the camera, live on lunchtime television. Immediately, the police came storming out from their protected positions with shields raised, visors lowered, brandishing truncheons, while the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, growing louder by the second.
“See what I mean?” said Anne.
“Yeah,” Marnie muttered softly.
The news reporter was back in view, this time standing in front of a fire engine. Behind her, senior police officers were conferring in a small group beside a dark blue van. Beyond them the line of riot police seemed very thin compared with the crowd of demonstrators waving their flags and lobbing more petrol bombs. Everywhere was fire and smoke, mangled vehicles and smashed shop windows. It was an image from hell. And it was taking place in the centre of a British city on a normal working day. Marnie tried to pay attention to what the reporter was saying.
… and a few minutes ago one of the senior police officers told me this was the first time in his experience that a mob of rioters – those were his words – had used ordinary passers-by in vehicles as human shields for camouflage and cover. This was no ordinary mob, he said. They were well organised and co-ordinated, sending one group out as decoys to make the police think they’d be coming from one direction, when the main force in fact came from the other end of the city. This is Caroline Dewar, BBC News, Leicester.
The calm of the television studio was in vivid contrast to the devastation of the city, the city where Marnie had spent the morning, through which she had driven twice that day. No wonder Anne had been anxious. The news presenter was looking worried.
We’ll bring you updates on the situation in Leicester later in this bulletin. We also hope to have an interview with Home Office Minister Gray Fordyce, whose opening of the Bharat Community Centre was marred by the violent demonstrations that we have just witnessed.
Anne pressed the button on the remote, and the screen went blank.
“Now do you see why I was frantic with worry?”
Marnie reached over and put a hand on Anne’s shoulder. “I certainly do.”
Anne looked drained. “I thought you might be caught up in all that. You’ll think I’m silly to make such a fuss, and I expect you didn’t see a thing, but –”
“I did. I did see. I saw some of the mob, those Neanderthals, when I was on my way into town.”
“That’s a bit harsh, calling them Neanderthals,” said Anne.
“Well they certainly looked sub-human to me.”
“No, I mean it’s a bit hard on the Neanderthals.”
“Good point.”
Anne’s eyes widened in realisation. “You actually saw them? What did they do?”
“Nothing much. They were just marching along. They held up the traffic.”
“Held up the traffic!” Anne repeated, eyes wider than ever.
“Not like that,” Marnie said hastily. “Just walking along. There were so many we had to stop to let them go by. Obviously the riot came later.”
“They shouldn’t be allowed to do that sort of thing,” Anne protested. “Why do the police let them get away with it?”
“Perhaps there’s nothing they can do to stop them until a demonstration turns into a battle. People have a right to demonstrate peacefully, at least I think they do. Anyway, it looks as if the police were out-numbered.”
Anne looked determined. “Well I think demonstrations like that should be banned.”
Marnie sensed that now was not the time for an objective discussion on civil rights. She said softly, “Sorry to make you worry like that. This rights business is a tricky question. Perhaps it’s best if these people do show themselves on the streets and are seen for what they are. Better the devil you know …”
“I suppose so.” Anne sounded unconvinced. “Is that what you really think?”
In her mind Marnie saw again the army on the march, their flags and armbands, their intimidating swagger, their air of menace.
“I’m not so sure.”
7
Today was different. On Monday, Marnie had driven alone and encountered the army of brigands. On Tuesday morning she rode shotgun in the Mini to Northampton where everything was peaceful as usual. Marnie had given in to Anne’s wish to use her car. She was pleased to see how carefully and precisely she drove, each gear change executed smoothly, accelerating and braking steadily. Another safe pair of hands. Today’s excitement was a visit to the accountants.
“You sure you’re happy about this?” Marnie had asked as they were setting off up the field track.
“Why not? Someone has to do it. It’s not all flair and glamour, being an interior designer.”
Marnie had laughed. “Flair and glamour!” She thought of the hours she spent poring over colour charts, swatches of materials, wallpaper samples. “I’d never thought of it quite like that. Creative, yes. Interesting, sure. But, well …”
“Well,” Anne had said, “
the accounts are just as important in their way, and I might as well learn how to do them properly. I’m not letting you keep me while I’m studying, without pulling my weight.”
Marnie respected Anne’s attitude and was only too glad to let her friend take care of the bookkeeping. Typically, it had been Anne’s idea to arrange a meeting with their accountant to make sure she was keeping the books correctly. Now, here they were, driving into town that morning in the shining red Mini. Only one set of traffic lights delayed them and as they waited, the car in neutral, handbrake engaged, Anne at the wheel concentrating, Marnie glanced at the billboard outside a corner newsagents: New Force Threat to Town. A frown crossed her face, but before she could interpret the wording, Anne was moving off, asking for directions. They soon turned into a side street of large Victorian houses and pulled up outside the offices of Rothwell Crawford and Company, accountants.
Anne silently pulled on the handbrake. “Great. We’re here. No probs.”
Marnie smiled. “I’ve never seen anyone so excited about a visit to their accountants.”
“Oh, it’s all fun as far as I’m concerned. So much to learn. They don’t teach you this kind of thing at school.”
*
Rex Crawford was sitting across the desk from Anne. He smiled at her over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. Among his clientele such enthusiasm was rare. It compensated for Marnie’s absence at another meeting. He had a soft spot for Marnie.
“I can see why Marnie regards you as a great asset, Anne. If ever you decided you wanted a change from interior design, I think you’d have a great future in accountancy.” He laughed gently. “Have I covered all your points?”
Anne looked down at her notebook. In their half hour together she had filled several pages. “You’ve certainly done that, Mr Crawford.”
“Call me Rex. It’s a pleasure to meet someone who takes their accounting seriously.”
“I wouldn’t want to make mistakes and get into trouble with the tax people. You can’t be a designer if you’re locked up in chains in the Tower of London.”
“Ah, but most people who have problems with the taxman haven’t committed fraud, Anne. They’ve just been sloppy in their bookkeeping. You’d never do that because of your attention to detail. That’s what counts in the end.”
“I’ve written everything down. I want to make sure I get it right.”
“Splendid. You keep the accounts in order and that’ll be one less thing to worry about. It’ll leave you to get on with the creative side of your job.”
“Is that what’s meant by creative accounting?”
“Ah, not quite. That’s something else.”
*
While Anne was being initiated into the mysteries of double-entry accounting, a quarter of a mile away Marnie was sipping pale coffee in a solicitor’s office. Her usual solicitor, fellow boat-owner Roger Broadbent, had recently announced that he was going into semi-retirement and was at that time away on a long-promised Caribbean cruise with his wife.
Marnie had found Jennings Plowright Beardman in the yellow pages and she was now sitting opposite Anthony Plowright watching him as he checked over a tenancy agreement. As he read, he gently chided her for not coming to see him sooner to sort out the legal documents for Jill and Alex Burton before they had moved into cottage number one. Marnie had not liked to tell him that she had been immersed in a murder enquiry at the time and had rather more pressing concerns than sorting out a rent book. She consoled herself with the thought that in the country people kept their word whether or not it had been approved by a lawyer. Mr Plowright consoled himself with the thought that Marnie had not caused herself or him any real problems. Yet.
He gave her a wad of papers to read, with copies of the tenancy agreements to discuss and finalise with the Burtons, with Grace and Will and with Estelle.
“Get the tenants to read everything carefully before they sign it. If they have any queries, you can give me a ring.”
A momentary embarrassment had occurred when Marnie had confessed that she did not know Estelle’s surname. Mr Plowright removed his glasses and looked pensively at Marnie. He spoke slowly.
“You don’t actually know the surname of this … lady … who is going to be living in your property. I see. How long have you known her?”
“A few days. We’ve met twice. But how long do landlords normally know new tenants, Mr Plowright?”
“Fair point, but it is a good idea to know something about them. A name is a good way to start, as are references, for example.”
This conversation was irritating Marnie. She guessed that he would now ask if she had a fresh handkerchief in her bag, if she had put on clean knickers that morning and if she realised he was only trying to protect her interests.
“I am only trying to protect your interests, Mrs Walker.”
One out of three, she thought. Could be worse. She said, “Estelle comes with impeccable references.”
“That’s good.”
He did not sound altogether convinced.
*
Rex Crawford gathered together the sample accounts that he had been perusing with Anne. She looked down at the list of questions that she had brought. There was a tick beside each one.
“Have we covered all your queries, Anne?”
“I think so, unless you have any last words of advice for me?”
“Not really. Just bear in mind that if the tax office can find an error, that opens the door to further enquiries. If they find one thing to query, they’ll have the opportunity to query anything. Always check the facts and tie up all the loose ends.”
“I won’t forget.”
Rex stood up and held out his hand. “You’ll be all right as long as you always read the small print. That’s where all the problems lie, and the answers to all the questions. Remember the old saying … the devil is in the detail … and you won’t go far wrong.”
*
Marnie checked her watch. Ten minutes to go before their agreed meeting time. She walked briskly up the street and was about to enter the coffee shop when she spotted the Tourist Information Office. It was a good opportunity to pick up some leaflets about summer events.
The office was busy with visitors, and Marnie’s attention was taken by a poster showing the Northampton branch of the Grand Union Canal. Making her way towards it, she had to manoeuvre round a small child clutching an ice cream cornet, trying to attract the attention of his mother who was in conversation with an assistant at the counter. He had an ice cream moustache and was slowly chanting Mummy, mummy like a mantra. His cornet was tipping over and in a second or two would spill its contents onto the floor. Marnie knelt quickly and touched the little boy’s arm. As he turned his gaze towards her, she smiled and moved his hand to keep the ice cream upright. The mother was unaware of this act of charity, and the child also seemed to miss its significance, staring at her blankly, but Marnie was noticed by another assistant who was just walking past.
“The summer play scheme leaflets are over there on the rack,” she said, looking down at Marnie, who straightened up to face her.
“Play scheme?”
“The second batch has been delivered. The organiser’s just brought them. Weren’t you in the other day asking for them, with your little boy?” She glanced in the direction of the child with the ice cream moustache.
“Er no, not actually. It’s the first time I’ve been in here this year. And that isn’t my little boy.”
“Oh, sorry. But if you do have children, you’ll want to see the programme. There’s a lot on this summer. It should be good – loads of activities, outings, games – for all ages, right through the holidays. She’s done a good job.”
“She?”
“The organiser, Serena McDowell.”
Hearing her name mentioned, the organiser looked round and smiled vaguely in Marnie’s direction before returning to her conversation with the office manager. She had a striking appearance, and even in that brief moment her
manner seemed to exude a dynamic energy. In jeans and a white sweatshirt, she was Afro-Caribbean with straightened hair reminiscent of a Tamla Motown singer, and just as glamorous.
“Is it only for children living in the town?” Marnie asked.
“No. It’s open to anyone in the county, but they have to provide their own transport to the community centre in Northampton. That’s where it’s based.”
Marnie suddenly remembered her meeting with Anne, thanked the assistant, quickly grabbed a few leaflets, including the play scheme, and dashed out.
*
They settled in a corner of the coffee shop with sandwiches and a Northampton cheesecake for dessert, a wickedness that Marnie permitted herself once or twice a year.
“You don’t mind eating here instead of a pub lunch?” she said.
Anne shook her head. “This is fine. I wouldn’t drink anything anyway when I’m driving. Pity to lose my licence when its ink hasn’t even dried. ”
“Quite right,” Marnie agreed. “So how did it go with Rex?”
Anne patted her bag. “I’ve taken reams of notes.”
“Quelle surprise.”
“Don’t mock. You’ll be grateful when all your accounts are copper-bottomed. Rex thinks I’d make a good accountant. How did you get on with Mr Plowright?”
“He didn’t exactly offer me a partnership. In fact he was rather unimpressed with my grasp of legal matters altogether.” She pulled out the wad of papers from her bag. “Look at this lot. Look at the size of the print. I’d need a microscope to go through that. Still, I don’t suppose he expects me to read it all.”
“Oh but you must, Marnie. I will too, if you like. It’s no use sighing. Remember, the devil is in the detail. Rex told me that.”
Marnie mumbled something inaudible and chomped on her sandwich. Anne had the good sense not to ask her to repeat it.
*
“Would it distract you if I put the radio on?” Marnie asked. “We’re in time for the one o’clock news.”