Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  “Of what?”

  “It’s an ironic name,” said Ralph. “It literally means ‘Night of Crystal’, but that doesn’t really convey anything in English.”

  “It sounds rather … Romantic,” said Marnie, trying to remember whether she had heard of it before.

  “It was anything but Romantic. It was the night the Nazis smashed up nearly two hundred synagogues all over Germany and Austria, November 1938. It was a co-ordinated operation on a huge scale. In Frankfurt alone they destroyed five synagogues each about the size of a cathedral.”

  “Struth! Last night was bad, but not in that league.”

  “Give them a chance, Marnie, that might just have been their apprenticeship. Kristallnacht had far-reaching consequences.”

  “Why was it called Krist – whatever … Crystal Night?”

  “Because of all the windows that were smashed. There was broken glass everywhere. Was there anything in our part of the country?”

  “Estelle and Luther had a run-in with the police last night after witnessing an attack on a mosque in Leicester.”

  “They had a run-in? Why?”

  “In the area at the same time, driving away from the scene.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing in the end. The police let them go. I’ll tell you about it when you’re back. But there’s worse news, another fire-bomb attack on the community centre in Northampton. They found a body in the ruins, a white person, they think, probably the arsonist caught out by his own bomb. And guess which is the lucky interior design company briefed to do the restoration?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. Your next question, knowing you, will be: Is that wise? Which means: Are you a complete barking lunatic? To which I reply: I just somehow got drawn into it.” She paused for breath. “Are you still there, Ralph?”

  “Yes. Just resting my vocal cords. I’m glad I’ll be coming back at the weekend. Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”

  “The other good news,” said Marnie, “is that I’m also getting involved in a summer play scheme mainly organised by the West Indian community.”

  “Wonderful! What’s it called, Phoenix?”

  Marnie laughed. “Actually, that’s rather good. I’ll suggest it to the organisers.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Perhaps not. But you do have a talent for names.”

  “Talking of which,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about your mysterious visitor and the name of his boat. Is he still around, by the way?”

  “He left this afternoon to my great relief. Anne was starting to think he might’ve been the one behind all the trouble being organised locally.”

  “Why? What’s he been doing?”

  “All sorts of things, but if I described them, they’d just seem like nothing, like the other night when I told you about him.”

  “Do you think he’s involved with New Force, Marnie, seriously?”

  “I dunno. I think maybe Anne’s nerves are getting through to me. Still, no need to worry about him any more. He’s gone now.”

  “That’s what I expected you to say.”

  “That he’s gone? Why?”

  “The name of the boat.” Ralph chuckled.

  “X O 2?”

  “Try saying the two in Spanish.”

  Marnie dredged up her holiday vocabulary, acquired for Mediterranean breaks and visits to her parents who had retired there.

  “Dos? You mean it’s called X O Dos?”

  “It’s possible, don’t you think?”

  “Where does that get us?” She sounded bewildered.

  “Try Greek.”

  “Bloody hell, Ralph! You’re supposed to be the intellectual round here. I’m just good at colours and fabrics.”

  “If you didn’t do Greek at school, Marnie, presumably you’ve read the Bible.”

  Marnie was becoming very slightly irritated. It was not like Ralph to play academic games to make her feel inferior.

  “The Bible? You know I’m an agnostic. I can’t do quotes from the … ah … the Bible. Yes, I get it. At least I think I do. Is it Exodus?”

  “It could be. I’m only guessing, but in Greek it’s spelt Exo-dos.”

  “And if you’re right, Mister Smarty-pants, I still have to come back to my question. Where does that get us?”

  “Perhaps your visitor’s had a classical education and is just taking time off. Simple as that. Exodos in Greek means the way out. Possible? It doesn’t mean he’s not bound up with the far right, of course.”

  “Just that he’s clever,” said Marnie. “Which could make things worse.”

  “Mm,” Ralph murmured. “That’s a good point. This new organisation obviously isn’t run by idiots.”

  “According to the reports here, there’s a mastermind behind it all, running a whole network.”

  “Does the name Garth Brandon mean anything to you, Marnie?”

  “No. Should it? Or is this another round of University Challenge?”

  15

  Next day, Anne was in charge. With Marnie and Estelle setting off early to visit a fabric wholesaler in Birmingham, she would be running the office, the site, the company. And she loved it. Beside her phone she had placed a notepad for messages, a pack of yellow post-it notes and her clip-board. She had checked the paper in the fax and photocopying machines and emptied the waste bins. The decks were cleared for action. Everything was in its proper place, including Dolly, who had taken up station under the desk-lamp.

  Anne had walked round to the car with Marnie and Estelle. Happy to be leaving the company in safe hands, Marnie had left no particular instructions. When she climbed into the Discovery, the window slid down.

  “We may look in on the community centre in Northampton on the way back if we’ve time. Serena’s trying to contact an architect to get advice about the building. Otherwise I’ll keep in touch on the mobile. Expect us back late afternoon.”

  “All will be fine, Marnie. Have a safe journey.”

  “Right. Dolly’s in charge. See you!” Accelerating off with a wave, Marnie called back, “And make sure you have a proper break at lunchtime. Okay?”

  In the middle of the morning, Anne shut up shop and set off along the path through the trees to fetch a bottle of milk from Sally Ann. Halfway into the spinney, she suddenly had the feeling she was being watched. A flash of movement made her jump, but it was only the cat bounding past. Without slowing, Dolly took off from the ground and leapt up the trunk of a tree, coming to rest on a large bough several feet from its base. Anne wished she could do the same and stood rigidly still, listening and watching. But there was only birdsong and shafts of sunlight probing through the canopy of branches. Slowly she edged forward, step by step until she reached the canal bank.

  Her anxiety dissipated when two boats came into view, passing at slow speed. The steerer on the first, an older man with a grey beard, lifted his free hand to greet her. Anne felt the smile pulling at her features as she relaxed and gave him a friendly wave. She hopped on board Sally Ann, glancing quickly across the water as the boats were going by. The opposite bank was deserted.

  “Beautiful day!” she called out.

  The man at the tiller grinned back and inclined his head. They were attractively painted boats. The crews were affable. The sun was shining. What could be better? What could go wrong?

  *

  “It’s the next junction, I think. Did that last sign say how far it was?”

  Estelle jumped. “Er, not sure. I haven’t been paying attention to the signs. Have you got a road atlas?”

  “Anne usually has it by her when we’re travelling anywhere. If it isn’t in the door pocket, try the back seat.”

  Estelle twisted round and began rummaging under the briefcases and plans behind them.

  “Got it. Hang on.”

  They were overtaking a lorry in heavy traffic, moving fast on the motorway, and Marnie strained forward to read another sign.

  “D
amn! Missed it. Why is it that lorries always get in the way just as you approach a sign?”

  Without looking up, Estelle said, “You don’t want to go as far as Spaghetti Junction, do you?”

  “Definitely not. But then who in their right mind does?”

  Estelle laughed. “You know something, Marnie? You’re spoilt. You’re used to having Anne with you to take care of everything. I bet she has the whole car organised when you go on a trip, atlas, tube of Polo mints, paper tissues, tin of fruit sweets. She has a great eye for detail.”

  After a pause Marnie said, “Yes. I suppose you’re right. I lead a sheltered life.”

  “It’s a two-way process, isn’t it?” said Estelle, desperately searching for a road sign.

  “How do you mean?”

  “She looks after you. You try to protect her.”

  “Protect her?”

  “Sure. Just now I saw this morning’s Guardian in your bag on the back seat. There’s no way we’ll have time to look at it. You took it so she wouldn’t read it and get worried, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” Marnie laughed. “But knowing Anne, she’ll probably realise I did that and worry even more. She doesn’t miss a thing, that girl.”

  “Nor must we. Our turn’s coming up. It’s about a mile.”

  Marnie flicked the indicator switch. “One mile to get into the inside lane. Let’s hope the truckers are feeling charitable.”

  She looked hastily over her shoulder to check the flow of traffic. As she did so, she caught sight of the Guardian protruding from her bag. She knew that the main front page photograph showed a group of angry young Muslims standing in front of a mosque with all its windows smashed, daubed in blood-red paint with the word Pigs. They were waving their fists at the camera beneath a banner headline: We’ll cut off their heads!

  *

  Twelve-thirty. On Marnie’s desk, Dolly stretched and yawned. Anne did the same. She stood and saluted the cat, who watched her with a steady gaze, blinking slowly.

  “Permission to break for proper lunch as ordered by the Admiral, skipper?”

  Another yawn. Anne took that as permission granted and switched on the answerphone. She promised herself a sandwich of tinned salmon with the surplus to go in Dolly’s bowl on Sally Ann. The cat’s radar picked up on the unspoken thought, and she followed Anne out, waiting while she locked the office door behind them. They set off together on the path through the trees.

  It had been a productive morning with enquiries from two potential new clients. The building works were going smoothly, and Anne was up-to-date with her invoices. She was pulling the boat key from her pocket when a shadow loomed at the edge of her vision. Looking up, she frowned. The shadow was the dark grey boat moored against the towpath across from Thyrsis, this time facing in the opposite direction. U-boat X O 2 had returned.

  Anne stared. Why was it back? Where had it been? Why, of all the places on the Grand Union Canal, did the owner want to be at Glebe Farm? There were no facilities here, no water-point, no boatyard. So why here?

  Anne wished Marnie was there to talk it over. She wished Marnie was there, full stop. Probably best to get the food from the fridge and take it back to the office. It was as she turned towards Sally Ann that Anne saw him. He was on the bridge about twenty metres away, looking down at her with an expression she could not read. From the angle at which he was standing, she realised he was probably straddling his bike. Without a word or a gesture, he hitched himself onto the saddle and pedalled on. Anne knew he would arrive beside her at any moment, but she was powerless to move.

  The sound of the bike’s knobbly tyres scrunching over the ground reached her before he came into sight. He arrived at an unhurried pace as if he was confident she would not have run away, and pulled up a few metres from Sally Ann.

  “It was you,” he said in a quiet voice. “Wasn’t it?”

  Anne nodded. She could not speak.

  *

  Marnie left Estelle studying a range of fabrics while she took the call. She found a deserted corner of the warehouse where she could speak quietly. Noting the hushed voice, Serena asked if she was calling at an awkward time.

  “No problem,” said Marnie. “Are you phoning about the architect?”

  “He can meet us any time after two o’clock. He sounded very helpful.”

  “That should suit us. I’ll ring you when we’re leaving to fix a time.”

  “It’ll be good to get this sorted out,” said Serena.

  “Before you go,” Marnie began, “I’m thinking of doing a buffet supper this evening. Nothing formal, just a few people from the village. Would you and your husband be free to join us? It’ll be nice to meet him.”

  “I’d love to, Marnie, but we’ve got something on already, I’m afraid. Let’s do it another time.”

  When they disconnected, Marnie rang the office to tell Anne about her idea for the evening. The answerphone cut in, and she left a message asking her to contact the few people and invite them to supper.

  “We’re going to meet the architect in town, but we’ll not be late back. Expect us around four. Can you put three or four bottles of white wine in the fridge and the same number of reds on the bench in the galley. Thanks. See you later. And you can invite Ronny to come too, if you’d like that.”

  *

  Anne felt like diving into the canal. The young man who stood in front of her astride his bicycle regarded her with a steady gaze. He was wearing a black T-shirt under a black leather jacket, charcoal grey jeans, black trainers. There was a silence about him, not an awkward adolescent inability to articulate; she could see he was a few years older than she was. It was the calm of an observer, taking in details.

  Eventually she spoke.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Who else could it have been?” His tone was without reproach.

  “Anyone.” She did not sound convincing, or convinced.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So you’ve come to ask why I did it, to explain myself.”

  “No. That’s fairly obvious.”

  Anne’s brow creased. “Why then? Why have you come?”

  “That’s pretty obvious, too.”

  “Is it?” Anne could think of a dozen reasons, most of them disturbing.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked in the same quiet voice.

  “I’m allowed to be here. I live here.”

  “No, I mean, what are doing right now, literally?”

  “Having a break, a sandwich. It’s my lunchtime. Is that what you meant?”

  “You have time to talk?”

  Anne remembered that she was facing the man they suspected of being part of a far right movement that was attempting, with some success, to disrupt the whole country. Its campaign of violence and wrecked buildings had cost lives. He disappeared at strategic moments, used Nazi images as decoration, lived on a strange boat.

  “Look, I can understand if you’re annoyed with me, and I‘m sorry for overstepping the mark, trespassing, but I –”

  “Could we talk while we eat together?”

  “Well, I … I suppose. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Smith,” he said.

  Anne looked doubtful. He held out his hand.

  “Donovan Smith.”

  *

  Ralph had found it difficult to concentrate that morning on the talk given by one of the senior economists from the Bundesbank: the benefits to European trade of introducing the euro. Over breakfast he had read several articles in The Guardian newspaper – the Mediterranean edition published daily in Marseille – about the new extreme organisation that had whipped up controversy all over Britain in just a few weeks of concerted action. Blacks were becoming suspicious of whites, Muslims wary of skinheads, and Asian shopkeepers had begun boarding up their windows at night. Though no-one had harmed them so far, the Jewish community was growing increasingly apprehensive. They had seen it all before.

  Leaving the confe
rence hall quickly at the end of the talk, he checked the time and pulled out his mobile. It would be around twelve-thirty in Britain. He hit the buttons for Glebe Farm and heard Anne’s voice inviting him to leave a message after the tone. Marnie’s mobile was engaged.

  He told himself he never used to be like this.

  *

  Anne could barely believe what she was doing. Donovan Smith – was that really a name? – was it really his name? – had invited her to look over his boat, and she had accepted. Ever practical, she had offered to make sandwiches for them both, and he had sat in the saloon as she mixed salmon with mayonnaise and sliced a red pepper, while pittas warmed in the oven. He offered chilled apple juice from his own stores on X O 2.

  They walked across the bridge and along the towpath like students going home from college, Donovan wheeling the bicycle, Anne carrying the pittas wrapped in greaseproof paper and two yellow pears. Neither spoke. It was an uneasy silence for Anne. The bike was heaved onto roof brackets and they stepped down into the cabin. Anne followed as Donovan opened the curtains to the portholes. The light inside the boat was subdued, and he switched on two halogen desk lamps and down-lighters built into the ceiling over the work and eating areas.

  “Have a seat.” He pointed at the unit with its table and benches and squatted beside the fridge.

  “Would you mind if I looked around?”

  “No.”

  With someone pottering in the galley and food on the table, the cabin seemed less sinister. Anne went forward to the study area and looked on the shelves. They were crammed with books, some of them old with strange lettering. Gothic print, faded covers. A whole row of these had the same author’s name, Klaus Herrmann. She could not understand the titles, but recognised the word Religion in some of them. She opened one and found a catalogue number beneath a stamp in black ink. The stamp was an eagle with outstretched wings clutching a swastika in its talons. She quickly closed it and returned it to its place.

  There were computer software manuals by the armful and textbooks on technical subjects like special effects and film editing. A handful of crime novels. Service manuals for the boat. A Bible in English. A Bible in German, spelt Bibel.