by Leo McNeir
Gifthorse
by
Leo McNeir
© Leo McNeir 2011
Leo McNeir has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2011 by Enigma Publishing.
This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
For Barry Lewis, Ron Phelps and Noel Jones
Friends reunited
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Spring Visitors
Chapter 2: Gin
Chapter 3: Reassurances
Chapter 4: Interview
Chapter 5: Stranger
Chapter 6: Dobbin
Chapter 7: Snowdrift
Chapter 8: Willow
Chapter 9: Bareback Rider
Chapter 10: Meeting
Chapter 11: Gippo
Chapter 12: Contact
Chapter 13: Snowball
Chapter 14: Quentin Blunt
Chapter 15: Butler’s Wharf
Chapter 16: Clarification
Chapter 17: Gift
Chapter 18: Willow’s Story
Chapter 19: Rumours
Chapter 20: Graeme McKinnon
Chapter 21: Gifted
Chapter 22: Donovan
Chapter 23: White Christmas
Chapter 24: Black Christmas
Chapter 25: Mr Meadows
Chapter 26: Identification
Chapter 27: Interview
Chapter 28: Accusations
Chapter 29: Identities
Chapter 30: Connections
Chapter 31: In Hiding
Chapter 32: Provisions
Chapter 33: Thaw
Chapter 34: Making Ready
Chapter 35: Taking Off
Chapter 36: Deductions
Chapter 37: The Gate
Chapter 38: Encounters
Chapter 39: Dominic Brodie
Chapter 40: Dominic’s Story
Chapter 41: Karen Brodie
Chapter 42: The Red Mini
Chapter 43: Unexpected Visitors
Chapter 44: Pursuit
Chapter 45: Pursuer
Chapter 46: Night Flight
Chapter 47: Camouflage
Chapter 48: Ben
Chapter 49: Prayer
Chapter 50: Confession
Chapter 51: TLC
Chapter 52: Interrogation
Chapter 53: Next of Kin
Chapter 54: Special Delivery
Chapter 55: Application Form
Chapter 56: Ben’s Project
Chapter 57: Confession
Chapter 58: Golden Opportunity
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
Spring Visitors
Was there at last a hint of spring in the air? Earlier in the week they had watched new-born lambs gambolling in the meadows beyond the canal. The heavy rains of the past few weeks had finally drifted away, leaving only puddles in the furrows of the undulating fields. Crocuses had supplanted snowdrops, and the first daffodils were opening cheerful faces to the world. All these optimistic signs of the coming of the sweet of the year had encouraged Marnie to think of a day’s outing on her boat, Sally Ann. A good decision.
Marnie and Anne had donned warm clothing that Saturday morning and taken food to cook on board in one of many beautiful mooring places up the Grand Union Canal. The third member of the crew, Dolly their sturdy black cat, sat on the hatch, her thick-pile fur puffed out, observing through deep amber eyes everything they passed.
Reversing Sally Ann out of her docking area, they had pointed the bows northwards and set off, both of them holding a mug of coffee in gloved hands. In jackets, jeans, woolly hats and boots, they stood together on the stern deck and breathed in deeply the fresh country air. It was chilly enough to make their noses tingle, but the sun was climbing, and by mid-morning the first sharpness had become a memory.
Marnie was in her early thirties, Anne not yet nineteen, and they had lived and worked together for over two years. They relaxed in each other’s company, taking turns at the tiller, chatting easily about their interior design projects and plans for the months ahead. Marnie had had health problems at the start of the winter but was now recovered. This did not prevent Anne from keeping a surreptitiously watchful eye on her friend and mentor, especially when Marnie’s lover, Ralph, was away as now on one of his frequent lecture tours.
Surveying the pastoral landscape, Marnie turned to Anne.
“You know, Ralph says no sunshine is as welcome as the sun in March because it brings with it the hope that it will stay.”
Anne grinned. “He always was a know-all.”
They had smiled together at that thought.
By mid-day the sky had clouded over for a time, but the weather remained dry and they pulled over to tie up for lunch by the towpath. Tuna steaks with new potatoes and broccoli followed by raspberry fool had done wonders for crew morale, especially when accompanied by a glass or two of Fleurie.
Later in the day Dolly opted for the comfort of the bed in the cabin to sleep off her share of the tuna, while Anne turned the boat round a mile south of the Stoke Bruerne flight of locks and steered them homewards. Within a few miles of their destination, Anne went below and tackled the dishes leaving Marnie at the helm. She was lining up the boat for the bridge hole on the approach to base as Anne came up the steps onto the deck. Anne looked back over the countryside where the late afternoon sun was casting long shadows.
“Oh no,” Marnie muttered. “What do they want now?”
Anne turned to see Marnie frowning.
“What is it?”
Marnie indicated the bank beside their mooring place at Glebe Farm. Two men in coats were waiting by the water’s edge, their expressions serious.
“It can’t be possible,” Anne said.
Marnie sighed. “I think it is.”
Chapter 2
Gin
Roger Broadbent was retying the mooring ropes on his boat Rumpole in London’s Little Venice while his wife, Marjorie, prepared refreshments. He was a tidy man with a tidy mind and liked his ropes to look immaculate. After a day spent cruising on the Regent’s Canal he liked to sit back in one of the comfortable armchairs in the boat’s saloon to enjoy what he called “afternoon tea’. This involved at least two chunks of ice, a slice of lemon and not too much tonic. While admiring his ropework he expected at any moment to be called in by Marjorie to the sound of the gin bottle being replaced in the cupboard.
“Roger!” Marjorie called through the window.
“Coming, dear.”
“It’s the phone for you.”
Odd to have a call at this time on a Saturday. He stepped briskly onto the stern deck and down into the cabin.“Who is it?”
“Marnie,” Marjorie said, sotto voce.
She handed him the mobile and stood beside him while he took the call.
“Hallo Marnie … yes, of course. What can I do for … You’ve been what? … On suspicion of what? … Have you been formally charged? … Interview at the station? … Well, I advise that you don’t say anything until I get there. Where are you being held? … Right. … Anne as well? Good lord. Sit tight. I’m on my way.”
“Whatever is it, Roger?” Marjorie looked worried.
Roger shook his head. “Marnie and Anne. They’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder.”
“Dear God!”
“I have to go at once.” He eyed the gin and tonic. “I could sure use that drink.”
“Not when you�
�re driving, dear.”
“Bugger!”
Chapter 3
Reassurances
Ralph Lombard may have been one of the country’s leading economists, but he was no expert at handling modern technology. In fact he had almost a phobia about it. So it was that, when the pager began to warble in his pocket, he had a frisson of panic when he realised he was receiving a message.
At the moment when the message came in, he had just boarded a Northwestern internal flight on his way from Newark New Jersey to Chicago. He pressed what he hoped was the right button and found himself confronted by the first line.
Don’t panic. We have been …
Ralph was about to scroll down when he felt a tap on the shoulder. A flight attendant smiled down at him with the perfect teeth of a Hollywood star.
“You have to switch off electronic equipment for take-off, sir.”
“Of course.” He pressed a button. “When can I switch on again?”
She beamed the smile again. “Not until we make our stop at Cincinnati.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Ralph leaned back against the headrest and gazed out of the window. Dr Ralph Lombard, visiting professor of economics and honorary fellow of All Saints’ College, Oxford, sometimes wondered if he was really equipped to live in the modern world. He worried if he would be able to retrieve the message and find out what it meant. Would it still be there when he switched on again?
He had little doubt about who had sent it. It had to be Marnie or Anne. But was the start – Don’t panic – meant in a light-hearted way or had something serious happened? There was nothing he could do. He would ring home when he reached Chicago and all would be revealed.
Another tap on the shoulder. The Hollywood smile was back.
“Your seat belt, sir.”
“What? Oh, yes. Sorry.” Ralph managed to fasten the buckle at the second attempt.
The attendant lowered her voice. “Don’t worry, sir. Flying is the safest way to travel.”
Don’t worry … don’t panic … Everyone was trying to reassure him. It wasn’t the travelling that was causing him concern, it was the arriving that bothered him.
Chapter 4
Interview
It took Roger Broadbent an hour and a half to make the journey up from London to Northamptonshire. On arrival at the police station in Towcester he was met by Detective Sergeant Marriner. The two men shook hands. They knew each other from previous cases, and relations between them were cordial.
“Where are you holding my clients, Mr Marriner?”
“They’re in an office just down the corridor. This way.”
“Look, you can’t really be serious about detaining them as murder suspects, surely. You know Marnie. It’s an absurd idea. And as for Anne …”
Marriner frowned. “I know, but it’s rather awkward.” He stopped outside a door and paused. “The circumstances don’t leave us much choice.”
In the office, Marnie and Anne were talking together. They seemed calm and stood up when the men walked in. Roger kissed them both on the cheek as Marriner turned to leave.
“One moment please, sergeant,” said Roger. “It would be helpful if you could just go over the facts as you see them before I have a word with my clients alone. Would you do that?”
They all sat. Marriner began.
“The situation’s quite straightforward. The deceased was on his boat, moored opposite Marnie’s … I mean, opposite the boats of Mrs Walker and Professor Lombard. He’d apparently been unwell. Mrs Walker took him breakfast that morning and left a flask of soup for later.”
While Marriner gave his account Marnie sat nodding. Anne remained motionless, eyes wide, hands folded in her lap.
“She’d arranged for a visitor – called Willow – to look in on Mr Dekker, during the day.”
Roger looked quizzically at Marnie.
She explained, “Because Anne and I were going for a tootle on Sally.”
Marriner resumed his narrative.
“Ms, er … Willow called in at approximately three o’clock and found Mr Dekker unconscious on the floor of his sleeping cabin. Unable to revive him, they lifted him onto the bed. He remained unconscious throughout.”
“They?” said Roger.
“Willow and her son, Ben. He’s ten years old.”
Roger noticed that Marnie was no longer nodding. Anne sat expressionless.
“Willow phoned for an ambulance. When it arrived, the paramedics were seriously concerned at the situation –”
“Which was?” Roger interrupted.
“Mr Dekker was dead. They contacted us. When we arrived, we determined there were suspicious circumstances surrounding the death.”
“Which were?” Roger said.
“We discovered several used strips of sleeping tablets. When tested for fingerprints, we found none from Mr Dekker.”
Roger said nothing, but glanced at Marnie.
“What happens now?” Marnie asked.
“You’ll be interviewed with Mr Broadbent present,” Marriner said.
“What about me?” Anne asked.
Marriner stood up. “You can wait here, Anne. I’ll leave the three of you to talk together. Ten minutes?”
“Thank you,” said Roger.
When they were alone Marnie asked, “Am I under arrest?”
“Not exactly. The police are following strict procedure because of the seriousness of the situation. They obviously think they don’t have much leeway. You don’t actually have to say anything, but that won’t help the police much, and I’m assuming you would want to be co-operative.”
“Of course.”
“You agree with Marriner’s summary of what took place?”
“Yes, as far as it concerns me. Tell me something, Roger. Am I being interviewed under caution? Is that what this is?”
“No. That’s something quite different. For now, you’re just assisting the police with their enquiries.”
“Then why did they bring us here?”
“Don’t read too much into it, Marnie. They want to record the interview. If Mr Dekker was murdered, this is obviously a very serious crime. The police are doing everything by the book.”
“By the book!” Marnie repeated. “Why do I get the feeling they’d like to throw it at me?”
*
In the interview room Sergeant Marriner sat beside Detective Chief Inspector Bartlett with Marnie and Roger opposite. The atmosphere was formal but not hostile. Bartlett began the questioning.
“Mrs Walker, you live at Glebe Farm, Knightly St John?”
Of course, you’ve come there often enough, she thought. “Yes.”
“For how long have you lived there?”
You know perfectly well. “Nearly three years.”
“You run a business from your home?”
This is ridiculous, you know I do. “I have an office in a small converted barn and three cottages for letting.”
“You live on a boat on the canal.”
As you well know. “Temporarily. I’m having the farmhouse renovated gradually.”
“You live with Professor Ralph Lombard and Miss Anne Price.”
No, I shack up with the Archbishop of Canterbury. “Strictly speaking, Anne has an attic room above the office. Ralph and I use his boat, Thyrsis, for sleeping.”
“The deceased, Mr Maurice Dekker, also lived on a boat.”
“He did.”
“And he kept his boat near yours.”
“No. As far as I know, he was continuously cruising.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“What it says. He travelled around.”
“But he must’ve had a base somewhere presumably?”
“If he had, I don’t know where it was. I believe he was a continuous cruiser.”
“For how long have you known Mr Dekker?”
Marnie considered the question. “Not very long. I first met him a few weeks ago
.”
“In what circumstances did you meet him?”
Marnie thought back to a winter’s day when snow was falling and a chilly wind was blowing through the village, bringing with it more than one unexpected visitor.
Chapter 5
Stranger
He was a tall man, gaunt and stooping, though perhaps that was accentuated by striding into the icy January wind. With one hand he clutched the collar of his dark blue Austrian Loden coat tight at the neck, with the other he held his hat in place. Struggling along the village high street, he squinted up at the Post Office sign over the shop door and went in.
Once inside, he paused to let the warmth seep into his body, carefully wiping his shoes on the coir matting. He left a small deposit of snow and dead leaves where he trod. Removing his black fedora he advanced towards the counter.
“Good afternoon,” said Molly Appleton brightly. “Nasty old day.”
“Indeed.” His voice was low, with a rasping edge.
“Can I get you something?”
“I need some provisions, but first, do you offer a poste restante service?”
“A what?”
“Poste restante. I’m travelling in this area by boat. I need an address where I can collect mail.”
“You’ll have to talk to my husband about that. That’s him over there.” She pointed to a separate booth, the top half of which was glazed in. “Richard’s the postmaster.”
“Thank you.”
Richard Appleton was serving an elderly lady who appeared to be buying a solitary stamp while relating much of her life history. The stranger picked up a basket and began filling it with tins and packets from the shelves. As soon as the elderly lady turned away from the postmaster’s booth, he presented himself and made his enquiry about poste restante. Richard looked apologetic.
“The post office doesn’t offer that kind of service these days, I’m afraid.”