by Leo McNeir
“What should we do?”
“Not sure – play for time, maybe.”
Marnie was sitting at her desk deeply engrossed in reading correspondence when the door opened. She managed a smile.
“Good morning, gentlemen. You’re lucky to catch me. I’m usually on my way to the summer scheme at this time of day.”
Bartlett crossed the room and perched on the corner of Anne’s desk. “I think we’d need a lot of luck to catch you at any time of day, Mrs Walker.”
“What can I do for you?”
“It’s your young friend we want to talk to.”
“Anne? I think she’s down at the boat.” She began to rise. “I’ll come with you. You’ll need me there if you want to question her, as a minor.”
Bartlett rose slowly. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“No problem.”
While they were searching for Anne at the docking area, Marnie was trying to wheedle out of Bartlett exactly what they wanted to ask her, but he was as forthcoming as a block of wood. All the time, Marnie was hoping that Anne would be preparing herself, getting her story straight for when they tracked her down. Walking back through the spinney, she was regretting that she had lured the detectives away. They were not stupid and could give them a hard time if they suspected this was a run-around. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, convinced she had made a tactical error, Marnie followed Bartlett back into the office, with Marriner behind her.
“Ah,” Bartlett muttered in satisfaction.
He had stopped in front of Marnie, blocking her view, and her insides turned over. She walked round Bartlett to see Anne by her desk and was amazed.
Anne was sitting on her office chair, bent forward, elbows on her knees, hands dangling down, feet apart, breathing heavily. She was wearing a jogging suit and trainers with a Nike headband and was perspiring visibly. With a pink glow in her cheeks, she looked up at the visitors.
“Morning,” she breathed. “Phew! That’s the last time … I try and keep up … with Luther.”
Marnie fought to control her face muscles. An Oscar-nomination was definitely on the cards.
“Anne, Mr Bartlett would like to talk to you.”
“Oh?” She was taking long deep breaths. “Now … or … after I’ve had my … shower?”
“Will it take long?” Marnie asked Bartlett. “Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee while Anne changes?”
“How can I … help you, Mr Bartlett? I’m sure you don’t want … to be kept waiting.”
Bartlett looked unsettled. He frowned. “We had reports that a girl answering to Anne’s description had been taken to the general hospital by a police officer for treatment.” He sounded as if he did not quite believe what he was saying.
“What for?” Marnie kept a straight face.
“ A suspected … broken ankle.”
Marriner coughed quietly in the background. Bartlett’s frown deepened. He turned to see Marriner incline his head towards the window. On the other side of the yard, Luther was jogging on the spot as he put the key in the lock to let himself in to the cottage.
“That’s me,” said Anne, still panting. “Only I think I’ve got … a suspected broken … everything. For exercise … I’m sticking to tiddlywinks from now on.”
Bartlett looked back at Anne. “I thought you said you were following Mr Curtiss. How is it that you’re here and he’s only just got back?”
“He probably went on as far as … Newcastle … after I gave up.”
Bartlett moved quickly across the room and knelt beside her, as if he was going to propose. “Can you just show me your ankle, Anne?”
Marnie held her breath.
“Which one is it?” Anne asked evenly. “The broken one, I mean.”
“I’d better see them both.”
Anne yanked the tabs on her trainers to the sound of Velcro pulling apart. She slipped her feet free and raised them from the floor. Bartlett inspected them closely and stood up. With head bowed, he walked back to stand next to Marriner.
“You can take your shower, Anne. Afterwards, we’d like you to come with us. We’re going on a trip to the hospital. Ted, get on to the station and ask Cathy Lamb to join us here.”
Marnie offered coffee while Anne took her shower, but they preferred to wait outside, strolling in the spinney.
“That was a turn-up, sir.”
“Mm …”
Marriner wanted to ask Bartlett if he really reckoned it was worth taking Anne to the hospital, but he thought better of it. “You think they might recognise her from yesterday?”
“What do you think, Ted?”
“I was thinking Anne might not be the person we’re looking for.”
“They gave a perfect description of her.”
“With a broken ankle.”
“I think you’re missing the point, Ted. She obviously doesn’t have a broken ankle.”
“No, sir. I just … well, I thought that was the point.”
In the cubicle at the back of the office barn, Anne lathered herself all over with her Sunday best shower gel. Seeing Luther through the window slit as he powered off on his morning jog had given her the idea. A rapid exercise routine had certainly brought her out in a sweat, and now it was her mind’s turn to work at high speed trying to devise a plan. With her distinctive colouring and urchin-cut blonde hair they would surely recognise her at the hospital. What could she do?
Outside, Bartlett was sorting out his own thinking.
“She can’t pretend not having a broken ankle. So … are you with me, Ted?”
Marriner looked doubtful.
“So …” Bartlett repeated. “Perhaps she was only pretending yesterday. She got away, didn’t she?”
“Right. I see what you mean, sir. But I thought the report said her ankle was badly swollen and she could only walk with assistance.”
“We’ll see. The one way to sort this out is to take her there and get them to confirm identification. That’ll clinch it.”
“We could get them to examine the ankle as well,” Marriner suggested.
“No need. Just look at her. With the summer we’ve been having, kids her age are all tanned. Paleface in there will stand out like a sore thumb, dead easy to identify.”
Anne finished the shower by running it cold over her ankle for as long as she could bear. When she re-appeared in the office she saw Marnie outside in the yard, talking to Bob the foreman. She walked slowly to the fridge in a towelling bathrobe, grabbed a bag of ice cubes and eased herself up the loft ladder. Sitting in front of her mirror, she propped the damaged foot on a pile of magazines with the ice bag resting on it like a saddle, and applied just enough make-up to put a little colour in her cheeks. She had to act quickly to avoid arousing suspicion. The final touch was a dab of make-up on the ankle. She completed the transformation, dressed in a rush and descended the ladder with caution.
Marnie was returning to the office as Anne’s feet touched down. A slow smile spread across her face as she saw the result of Anne’s efforts. Bartlett and Marriner followed her into the office and stared. Marnie switched off the smile and turned to the men.
“I think that’s your colleague arriving. I can hear a car. Will you want me to come with you?”
“No, thanks. That won’t be necessary.”
*
Marnie felt her usual protective anxiety, watching the two unmarked police cars set off in convoy, Anne travelling with WDC Cathy Lamb. As they took her away, she waved her fingers reassuringly to Marnie with a tentative smile. Anne was bright and quick-witted but she was outnumbered, and it was always a mistake to underestimate the police. They were not the lumbering plodders of popular fiction.
Her musings were terminated by the phone ringing in the office.
“It’s Dorothy, Marnie. I’ve got good news.”
“That’s nice to hear. We could use some of that.”
“Well, you’ll be glad to know that everything is under control for Sunday.”
“Sunday,” Marnie repeated vaguely.
“The summer fete?”
“Of course.” It seemed a lifetime away. Would they survive that long? She tried to sound enthusiastic. “That’s great news, Dorothy.”
“And I’ve got a surprise for you. First, though, let me tell you we’ve got a bouncy castle, a giant trampoline, two roundabouts, a brass band, one of those – what do you call them? – DJs for the youngsters, a reggae band, a steel band …” She was obviously reading from a checklist. “Fourteen stalls, including a tombola, a coconut shy, produce from the W.I. and the Townswomen’s’ Guild …”
Dorothy’s voice droned on. The town was occupied by an army of neo-fascists, and her team was planning to throw balls to win coconuts. It was Nero and Rome burning all over again. Marnie suddenly registered that a question had been asked, and her attention snapped back.
“Sorry, Dorothy, what was that?”
“Have you seen her on television?”
“I … don’t think I have.” A safe reply. “What programme is she in?”
“Well, it’s called Leila Ravenswood … because … that’s her name.”
“I see.” Marnie was lost.
“She used to be in Eastenders. Anyway, she’s agreed to do the opening. You have to have someone from TV to open everything these days, so that it goes off with a bang.”
An alarm bell clanged in Marnie’s head. She thought of a minister opening a community centre in Leicester and saw the rag-tag New Force army on the streets throwing petrol-bombs at the police. She thought of the Prime Minister coming to open the business park in Northampton and being forced to withdraw from the ceremony because of the rioting, rioting that had led to murder.
“Dorothy, are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why not?” Mrs V-H was not accustomed to having her plans questioned.
“I was just wondering whether it might attract attention from undesirable elements.”
“Undesirable … oh, you mean those ghastly New Force thugs.”
“Exactly.”
“Marnie, I have to say this to you – and please don’t take it the wrong way – but your generation, the people like you, who’ve grown up with everything politically correct, you sometimes have a tendency to think that everything has to be achieved somehow without risk. Sometimes you have to stand up and be counted and not back down just because you think there might be trouble.”
“But –”
“I’m afraid this is one of those times, Marnie.”
“I’m worried about the consequences, Dorothy. People will get hurt if there are more disturbances. More people might even get killed.”
“And so it will go on until the time comes when someone stops this nonsense in its tracks. That time is now. We cannot back down.”
“Despite the dangers?”
“Despite everything.”
*
Anne did her best to walk into A and E as normally as possible. Each step on her left foot caused a stab of pain to shoot up her leg, but it was bearable. She used the excuse of people coming and going to walk slowly and hoped the swelling would not return.
Bartlett marched them all up to the reception desk, where Anne was horrified to recognise the duty officer. There was nothing for it. The Brave Face was presented with a smile as Bartlett produced his warrant card and introduced the group.
“This is Miss Anne Price. We have reason to believe she was the young woman admitted here yesterday with a broken … that is, with apparent ankle injuries. We’d like you to tell us if you can identify her.”
The woman fixed Anne with a stare before swivelling her eyes round to Bartlett without blinking.
“We didn’t admit anyone with ankle injuries yesterday, at least not during my hours on duty.”
“You were here all afternoon?”
“From two till ten.”
“All right, she came here with a police officer who believes he saw her being taken away for treatment by a nurse. Can you remember seeing her?”
Another stare at Anne. The woman pondered. “Yes. Definitely.”
Anne felt the waiting room sway. She battled with her expression, desperate to keep cool. Her plan was coming unravelled. This was a disaster. What could she do?
“You’re quite certain of that?” Bartlett persisted.
“Quite certain.”
“You saw this girl yesterday and she was being treated for ankle injuries. Is that correct?”
The woman frowned. The frown turned into a smile and grew into a quiet laugh.
“That girl?” She shook her head, grinning all the while. “Not that girl. I saw a girl with a suspected fracture, but she wasn’t admitted and, as far as I know, she wasn’t treated.”
“How can you be sure?” Bartlett was highly agitated. “Don’t you keep an eye on your patients?”
“Of course, but we can’t hold them here against their will. They can come and go as they please.”
“Look, we believe this girl was here yesterday and she absconded from police custody.”
“So you lost her. Don’t you keep an eye on your detainees?”
Bartlett smarted. “Never mind about that. What I’m saying is, I want to see the nurse who took her away for treatment.”
“She’s not on duty till this evening.”
“Then who can identify her?”
“I can.”
“You said she wasn’t the girl with the ankle injuries.”
“Correct.” Before Bartlett could object again, she added, “Look at her.”
They did as she asked. They saw a clear-eyed young woman in a simple white summer dress with a tiny flower design. She was clean, fresh and wholesome, with neatly brushed shining blonde hair and the merest touch of make-up discreetly applied. There was a hint of perfume in the air.
Bartlett looked grim. “Obviously she wasn’t dressed like this when she came in yesterday. She’s just had a shower and put on different clothes. But it’s the same girl.”
“No it isn’t.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“The girl who came here was one of those far-right types.” Bartlett opened his mouth to object, but the woman raised her hand to silence him. “How do I know? That girl had a tattoo.”
Bartlett gaped. “Where? Nobody said anything about a tattoo.”
“On her face, her forehead. It was a swastika. I saw it clearly. This girl is blonde, that I grant you, and she’s had a shower, fine. But she’d have needed surgery to remove that tattoo. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
There was an awkward silence as the duty officer turned away to deal with a queue of arrivals. Bartlett stared at Anne’s forehead. He blinked several times, and Anne feared he might explode. Instead, he made for the exit, and the others followed in his wake. Just inside the doorway he suddenly stopped and turned to Anne.
“Look, Anne, I’m sorry about this. There appears to have been a case of mistaken identity.”
“I’m not one of those far-right types, Mr Bartlett,” Anne said simply. “I may have the right colouring, but I’m not …”
Her voice faded and her eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder. They were standing partly blocking the entrance, and people were having to squeeze round them to enter the building. One group was hanging back, and it was on them that Anne’s gaze had fallen, four people, a woman and three youths, West Indians. The boys wore multi-coloured berets with dreadlocks visible at the edges. Bartlett was saying something to Anne, but she did not hear him. Her eyes filled with tears.
Leaving Bartlett flat-footed, Anne eased past him and flung her arms round the neck of one of the youths, to his great surprise. He held her lightly while the others in his party looked on in amazement. Anne pulled back.
“Don’t you know me? It’s Anne. You gave me the Bob Marley stickers, remember?”
Understanding dawned. “Yeah, yeah, course I remember. How’re you doin’?”
She wiped tea
rs from her face with her fingertips. “Okay. You?”
They performed the shuffle, nodding. The young Rasta indicated the woman beside him. “This is my mum.”
“Hallo. I’m Anne.” She inclined towards her escort. “This is Det– … er, these are my friends, Mr Bartlett, Mr Marriner and Cathy.”
It took less than a second for the West Indians to work out that Anne’s friends were the police.
“Why are you here?” Anne asked quickly, anxious to move away from personalities.
The boy shrugged. “Come to see Buzz.”
Bartlett, who was observing this encounter with impatience tempered with curiosity, suddenly found himself holding on to Anne. She had stepped back from the West Indians and almost collapsed into him. He could feel her body shudder as a spasm of emotion ran through her. Steadying herself, she put a hand to her chest.
“Buzz?” she repeated weakly. “He’s being kept here?”
Cathy Lamb reached across to support Anne’s arm. It was the mother who replied.
“Bertram has come out of intensive care. They’ve moved him to another room.”
Anne’s voice was barely audible. “Bertram … Buzz. He’s alive? I mean, he’s all right?”
“Apart from a fractured skull and some other injuries. They say he’ll mend.”
*
WDC Cathy Lamb drove Anne home to Glebe Farm. On the way back, she rested her head against the side window with her eyes closed, and they travelled most of the way in silence.
“The police did a good job, getting to Buzz like that after he was attacked.”
“Where was that, Anne? Did you see it happen?”
Red warning lights flashed in Anne’s brain. She kept her eyes closed and took a few deep breaths.
“It was in the paper, photos of Buzz being beaten by a New Force gang. They said he’d been killed.”
“So, Buzz is Bertram? That’s his real name?”
“I suppose. I only knew him as Buzz. He was a helper at the summer scheme. I’m so glad …”
“Good news,” said Cathy. She smiled at Anne. “He’ll sing reggae again. Did you know him well?”
*