Gifthorse: The next instalment of the riveting Marnie Walker series

by Leo McNeir

  “Sure. My usual waterside table in the best restaurant round here.”

  “Palm court orchestra?” said Anne.

  “Natch. At least I was in the dry. I’m between bridges at the moment. There’s one up ahead and …” His voice tailed off.

  “Donovan? Are you there?”

  His voice was hushed. “Gotta go. Ring you later. Don’t phone me again.”

  *

  Willow had a spring in her step as she walked back to Glebe Farm. After the disappointment of not getting down to see friends in London, she was now elated at the prospect of progressing Ben’s education via distance learning. As soon as she could, she would phone her sister, the teacher, with the news.

  Willow called in on Marnie, apologised for the interruption and gave her a one-minute account of the agreement with Margaret Giles. Marnie was pleased and relieved that Ben’s future was moving in a positive direction.

  Willow was insisting that she should pay rent for the stable barn and the use of the shower and washing machine – against firm resistance from Marnie – when Anne slid down the wall-ladder. She reported her contact with Donovan and his sudden breaking off in mid-sentence. Could it mean he had located Maurice?

  They were initially glad that Donovan’s efforts might have been successful. Then two questions reared up. If he had found Maurice, why the sudden disconnection? And why the demand for radio silence?

  *

  Donovan dismounted quickly and pushed the bike into the hedge at the side of the towpath. Satisfied that it was out of sight, he advanced slowly, trying to look like any casual walker out for a stroll. Slipping the binoculars from a pocket, he stopped and focused them on the bridge that was now less than a hundred yards ahead.

  Someone else was using binoculars, and with the same intense concentration as himself. From where he stood, Donovan could see only the back of their head and shoulders. They were wearing a hooded jacket, so he had no way of making out any details of their appearance. Donovan wondered if the person could just be a harmless birdwatcher, excited at sighting a kingfisher by the bank. But something about the movements, the stealth in the actions, persuaded him otherwise.

  Donovan could gain no impression of height as the watcher was bent forward, leaning on the far parapet, keeping as much of their body out of vision as possible. He began walking faster, all the while working out a plan. Should he continue on past the bridge, paying no apparent heed to the onlooker, or should he cross the bridge and see what reaction this provoked? In readiness for either eventuality, he loosened the hood on his jacket and pulled it up to cover his conspicuous blonde hair.

  With fifty yards to go, his plans went into reverse gear. The watcher on the bridge suddenly turned and jogged off to the far side, still keeping a low profile. Donovan stopped to think, desperate to know what or whom the stranger was watching, and equally anxious to get a look at the watcher himself. An expression of Marnie’s came to mind. When confronted by a tricky situation, she favoured what she called the Royal Marines School of Management: seize the high ground. Donovan moved quickly forward. The best vantage point was the middle of the accommodation bridge.

  He had advanced only a few steps when he realised he would need maximum mobility. He ran back to the mountain bike in the hedge. As he was pulling it onto the path, he heard in the distance a car starting up, followed by a squeal of tyres. As the sound of the engine faded, Donovan pulled out the cruising guide and located his position on the map. He ran a finger along the canal until he found a point where a road crossed the waterway. It was roughly two miles further on in an area of no habitation.

  Donovan raced past the bridge. If Maurice was up ahead, the sooner he reached him, the better. He had no idea what the watcher planned to do, but surmised that anyone who stalks someone with binoculars and then sets off at speed probably has something in mind. Donovan sat up in the saddle and peered ahead.

  There it was.

  Disappearing round a bend in the canal, was a boat. Its only distinguishing feature at that range was its colour. In the afternoon light it was clearly a dull red. Donovan could not make out the steerer with any certainty, but it seemed to be a man in dark clothing, wearing a large black hat. The mountain bike threw up stones from its tyres as Donovan lifted himself from the saddle to put maximum weight on the pedals. He abandoned caution to close on his quarry at full speed.

  As soon as he reached hailing distance Donovan sat up, cupped his hands and called out. “Mr Dekker! Maurice!”

  The man at the helm paid no attention. Donovan lowered himself back to grip the handlebars and pedalled faster. He overtook the boat and stopped at the water’s edge, lowering his hood and waving both arms over his head. The man at the helm was definitely Maurice Dekker, but he steadfastly ignored Donovan and kept his eyes on the canal ahead.

  Again Donovan shouted, but it made no difference. Exasperated, he stood panting from his exertions, straddling the bike as the boat cruised by. He fancied that Maurice seemed to be clinging on to the tiller like a crutch. The woman he had seen that morning was right; Maurice looked none too chipper. Unless Maurice made a conscious decision to pull over, there was nothing Donovan could do to force his attentions on him. At his current rate of travel he would arrive at a position where the watcher – the pursuer, as Donovan now considered him – would be able to intercept him.

  He swung the bike round and set off again, quickly overhauling the boat and leaving it behind. He knew there was at least one other accommodation bridge ahead and at least two winding holes. Soon, he was out of sight of Maurice’s boat, pedalling hard until he saw before him the brick arch of the next bridge. It was reflected in the still water to make a perfect O, where the canal narrowed to little more than the width of a single boat.

  Skidding to a halt, Donovan concealed the bike against the bridge’s far wall and looked back the way he had come. The canal was curving all along this sector, following a natural contour line, and his range of vision was limited. He was in a secluded area that seemed not to have altered since the canal was built in 1794. Donovan had a brief image of himself as a highwayman, lying in wait for a carriage on an isolated road.

  He became aware of the faintest murmuring when around the bend in the canal, the prow of a boat crept into view. Donovan ducked out of sight, pressing his back against the wall of the bridge, waiting. He could hear the boat drawing nearer and braced himself to pounce. The engine note suddenly grew louder for several seconds before fading completely. The boat failed to appear.

  Donovan was exasperated, realising that Maurice had come to a halt some way short of the bridge. He was playing a waiting game. As long as he remained in mid-channel, he was out of reach, and time was on his side.

  Maurice could wait until another boat came along from either direction, or someone walking the towpath. They would then no longer be alone. There would be witnesses. The presence of third parties was his best form of defence. It was a stand-off, a stalemate, and the initiative now lay with Maurice. If need be, he could stay immobile for hours, biding his time.

  Minutes passed, a quarter of an hour, half an hour. Still Maurice waited out of range, while Donovan waited out of sight. Then he saw it. Coming from the south, a boat was travelling towards him, its prow pushing a gentle bow wave. Now Maurice would be able to seize his chance. He would move forward and clear the bridge in full view of the oncoming craft. Donovan made ready to grab his bike and heave it onto the bridge, to hide until Maurice was through and on his way again. On his way towards the real pursuer.

  But Maurice made no move. Why? Donovan reasoned that his best option would be to advance as the new boat approached. The steerer would be watching the bridge and Maurice’s boat, giving them their full attention. Suddenly, Donovan understood. Maurice could not yet see the new boat. The curve of the canal and the bulk of the bridge were obscuring his view. A plan formed itself there and then.

  Donovan tugged off the black hoodie and thrust it into the rucksack. Underne
ath it he was wearing a grey sweatshirt. In the bag he noticed a grey baseball cap, which he hurriedly put on. His appearance was little changed, but it was the best he could manage. The boat was much nearer now, and Donovan crouched down, to give the impression of a jogger tying his laces. He straightened up, ran on the spot for a few moments and set off at an easy pace, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was not in Maurice’s line of vision.

  The steerer looked across at Donovan as he came nearer. Donovan raised a hand and called out.

  “Boat other side of the bridge waiting to let you through.”

  “Right-o! Thanks.”

  As soon as the boat passed, Donovan began jogging on the spot. He could not allow himself to run on any further for fear of being seen by Maurice. He knew the other boater was now giving all his attention to negotiating the bridge and was unlikely to turn round to look behind him.

  Donovan waited until the prow of the other boat was nosing into the bridge hole before continuing on his way. For the next several seconds he would be invisible to Maurice. He judged that he was about fifty yards from the bridge before stopping again. The steerer was now passing through the arch, his boat almost completely filling the narrow aperture. Donovan turned and began slowly jogging back, his head down as if weary from a long run.

  Maurice wasted no time, but immediately accelerated forward to tackle the bridge while the other boat and its steerer – his witness – were nearby. He could see Donovan now through the arch, but pressed on. Timing was of vital importance at this stage. Donovan needed to have reached the bridge while the red oxide boat was still going through. He speeded up, passing his parked bike while the boat was halfway through the bridge hole and fully committed.

  Donovan stopped at the foot of the bridge, turned and waited. Just as the boat emerged from under the arch, he sprinted towards it. Maurice was looking back over his shoulder, making sure the jogger was going by. He spotted the mountain bike leaning against the wall and only just understood what it meant when Donovan raced into view and leapt from the bank onto the counter. Maurice gaped in surprise and, for a moment, Donovan thought he was going to faint with shock. His face was ashen grey and lined with fatigue.

  “Mr Dekker, Maurice, it’s me, Donovan.” He pulled off the baseball cap, breathing heavily.

  Maurice groped forward as if trying to reach the pole or the boathook on the roof. He seemed far from convinced of Donovan’s good intentions. His expression was of fear bordering on panic.

  “I mean you no harm, Maurice. You remember me, from the Christmas party at Marnie’s place? Donovan, Donovan Smith. I’ve come to help you.”

  With his attention distracted, Maurice had allowed the boat to veer off course. It was now edging towards the towpath bank, and Donovan pulled the tiller over to straighten up. Maurice did not attempt to resist, his breathing heavy and listless.

  “What do you want?” Maurice’s voice was hoarse. “Why have you followed me here?”

  “First, can we stop for a moment?”

  Maurice looked suspicious. “What for? What is this?”

  “I just want to get my bike,” said Donovan. He pointed back at the bridge. “I can’t leave it lying around.”

  Maurice nodded. “All right.” He steered to the bank and brought the boat to a halt. “You can fetch it now.”

  Donovan looked at Maurice. He did not trust him and suspected that as soon as he jumped ashore, Maurice would take off again.

  “Maurice, we need to talk. There are things I have to tell you. I think we should tie up for a while.”

  Without waiting for a response, Donovan picked up the clout hammer and mooring pins from inside the door and leapt onto the bank. He quickly made the boat fast and jogged back to collect his bike. Meanwhile, Maurice slumped against the tiller and waited. Donovan heaved the bike onto the roof.

  “Do you want to go inside?” said Maurice.

  “Only if you need to sit down. We really can’t stay here long.”

  Maurice’s habitual frown deepened. “I think you ought to tell me what’s going on.”

  *

  Anne was in the office when her mobile began chirping. When she pressed the green button she could hear the sound of an engine throbbing in the background.

  “So you found him,” Anne said without preamble.

  Donovan raised his voice above the engine. “Yes. Listen, we’re heading back up the cut. Can you get down here to meet me at the place where you dropped me off?”

  “No probs. When? Now?”

  “Yes. I hope to get there about the same time as you.”

  “What about Mr Dekker?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  *

  With some difficulty Donovan persuaded Maurice to go below while he took over the tiller. As he manhandled the bike down into the cabin, he gave Maurice a rapid update on the latest developments. Maurice was appalled and became even more alarmed when Donovan told him about the pursuer stalking him.

  He convinced Maurice they should wind the boat and head north again. Having settled Maurice below, Donovan tried to look relaxed at the tiller. Feeling far from relaxed, he turned his mind to the pursuer. Donovan was certain he would be waiting for Maurice at the next road bridge. What would he do when the boat failed to arrive? How long would he wait before his patience ran out and he came looking for him?

  The pursuer might well return to the last place he had seen Maurice and start again from scratch. That meant they might both be converging on the same place at that very moment.

  Donovan called down to Maurice and outlined a plan. If they cleared the road bridge safely, they would go on to their rendezvous with Anne. Maurice agreed, but refused to leave the boat and return to Glebe Farm with her. The only choice remaining was to travel on beyond the meeting point to find a spot where Maurice could tie up off the towpath side, relatively safe and hidden from view.

  Donovan’s next thought was how better to camouflage the boat. The pursuer probably believed Maurice was travelling alone. This meant that Donovan should be in full view, though ideally not recognisable in case that caused problems in the future. As chance would have it, the day had become brighter. Donovan saw a possibility. He leaned down and rummaged in the rucksack, taking out a pair of sunglasses. He slipped them on, put on the baseball cap and raised his hood.

  Inside the boat he spotted a small radio on the map shelf and beside it, a packet of cigarettes. Round the next long bend the pursuer’s bridge would come into view. It was time to put the next phase of the plan into operation.

  When the boat cleared the bend, Donovan was sure he could make out someone on the bridge, leaning on the parapet. For a brief moment he caught a flash of light. The someone was using binoculars. Under Donovan’s plan the pursuer should see a boat being driven by a young person, perched on the roof, dressed to keep out the chill, wearing sunglasses against the afternoon sun. The steerer was nonchalantly guiding the boat with a foot on the tiller, leaving both hands free to light a cigarette, while listening to heavy metal from one of the local radio stations.

  By the time Donovan took the boat through the bridge hole, no-one was visible above him. He joined in with the music, tapping out the beat on his knee, resisting the temptation to look over his shoulder, but sure he could feel eyes boring into his back.

  The next landmark came up several minutes later, the bridge where Anne had left Donovan that morning. It seemed to be clear, with neither Anne nor the pursuer in sight.

  *

  Anne grabbed her jacket from the hook, picked up the keys for the Mini and told Marnie she would be gone for an hour or so.

  “I must say I’m surprised,” said Marnie. “Whoever would’ve thought Maurice would head south?”

  “Donovan did,” Anne said, heading for the door. “That’s exactly what he thought Maurice would do. See you later.”

  Anne reached the meeting place in just over half an hour. She left the Mini in a pub car park a short distance from the
road bridge before wandering along the pavement, trying to look as if she was out for a casual stroll. Having walked barely twenty yards, she heard a voice behind her.

  “Excuse me.”

  Anne turned to find herself confronted by a middle-aged man in a sweater and jeans. She tried to conceal her alarm.

  “Yes?” she croaked. She cleared her throat. “What is it?”

  “Did you park that red Mini at the pub?”

  “Yes.”

  “You realise it’s not a public car park, don’t you?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “It’s only for patrons of the pub,” the man said.

  “Of course.” Anne relaxed and attempted a smile. “I’m meeting my boyfriend here for a drink, but he hasn’t arrived yet. He should be here any minute.”

  The man also relaxed. “Fair enough, only we get lots of people who think they can use our premises just like that.”

  “It must be very annoying for you,” said Anne.

  “Happens all the time. Anyway, I’ll leave you to wait for your friend.”

  As soon as the man had gone, Anne turned to find someone else confronting her.

  “Who was that?” Donovan asked, looking over her shoulder.

  “The pub landlord, I presume.” She kissed Donovan on the cheek. “I’ve parked on his premises. I think we’d better go in for a drink before we leave.”

  “Yeah. Good idea.”

  They walked along to the pub, Donovan wheeling his bike. When they reached the door, Anne handed Donovan the car keys, suggesting he should put the bike in the Mini while she got the drinks. They went their separate ways. When Donovan returned, he found Anne sitting at a table, a concerned expression on her face.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Possibly.” Anne glanced towards the bar, where the landlord was pulling a pint. She spoke quietly. “He asked me if you’d come on a boat. I said, no, you were cycling the towpath. He then said someone had been in before lunch, asking if he’d seen anyone with a boat painted in red undercoat.”

  Anne had bought Donovan a German lager. He sipped it.