No Secrets (MARNIE WALKER Book 6)

by Leo McNeir

  “That’s a date, then.”

  “What time do you want to come up?”

  “Say … ten-thirty?”

  “It’s in the diary. See you then.”

  Anne waited until Marnie had ended the call and finished writing the time before she spoke.

  “Marnie, you shouldn’t do that.”

  “What, mummy?” Marnie looked over at her friend sitting at the desk on the other side of the office.

  “Ha … ha.” Anne gave her the heavy eyelids look. “But I mean it. It’s not good for you.”

  “What did I do?”

  “That thing with the phone under your chin and your shoulder hunched up like Quasimodo. It’s bad for the top of your spine. Do it too often and you’ll end up stomping around like Richard the Third.”

  Marnie suppressed a smile. “I’ll try to remember.”

  “Good.”

  “Here’s something else to remember: Barbara’s coming up the day after tomorrow.”

  Anne checked her calendar. “Did I hear you say ten-thirty?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh …” She pulled a face. “That’s a pity. I’m at college that morning, can’t be here for the meeting.”

  “Never mind, there’ll be other times. Have a look at the scheme design anyway and let me know what you think.”

  Marnie dropped the green folder on Anne’s desk and went out to discuss progress on site with the foreman of the builders.

  Anne spent several minutes reading through the scheme. They had often talked about decorating the vicarage, but Anne could see how Marnie had adjusted her vision to reflect Barbara’s tastes. The colours were richer, less restrained than Anne expected. She appended a few comments about details. With typical thoroughness Marnie had even specified planters for the conservatory with suggestions on plants to fill them. It had been added in Victorian times and was Anne’s favourite space in the whole building. She began writing notes on its treatment and was outlining an idea for it when the phone rang.

  “Walker and Co, good morning.”

  “I’d like to speak to Marnie, please.”

  “Is that Mrs Taverner? It’s Anne. Marnie’s out with the builders at the moment. Can I go and find her and get her to phone you back in a few minutes?”

  “Er …”

  “Or I could take a message?”

  “Actually, I just wanted to change our meeting arrangements for later in the week.”

  “I’ve got access to the diary. Can I help?”

  “I was wondering if she’d mind coming here instead of me coming up to you.”

  “To London? I’d better check that with her and get her to ring you.”

  “Thanks. While you’ve got the diary there, Anne … Let me see …” There was the sound of pages turning. “With Christmas not far off, I’m starting to get a lot of social events coming up. It’d be good if I could set aside time for regular meetings to keep the project running smoothly.”

  Anne wondered why Barbara should think the project would only run smoothly if she had regular meetings with Marnie. Holding the cordless phone, Anne went over to Marnie’s desk.

  “You want to fit in another meeting?”

  “Let me give you some dates.”

  She reeled off a list of days and times, one each week extending into the new year up to the end of January. When she had finished, she asked Anne to repeat them back to her – for cross-checking. Anne had the feeling that Barbara doubted her reliability. When Barbara asked if she had written them all in the diary, Anne had to conceal her irritation.

  “Yes. They’re all here in Marnie’s desk diary and I’ll add them to the office diary on my computer as soon as I put the phone down.”

  “Excellent. And you’ll ask Marnie to ring me about this week’s meeting?”

  “I will.” Anne half expected her to want that confirmed by fax. “I won’t forget, Mrs Taverner.”

  “Good. Thank you, Anne. And do call me Barbara.”

  Marnie returned ten minutes later and rang Barbara to confirm she would be happy to see her in London. When she ended the call she noticed that Anne was looking thoughtful. There were no prizes for guessing why.

  “I know what’s bothering you, Anne. I’m sorry about it, but don’t worry.”

  “Mm?”

  “There’ll be other times, like I said. I suppose it’s even worse, now that the meeting is at her place rather than up here.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “You’re not going to pretend you aren’t aching to see their house in Docklands, are you? I know I am.”

  “I wonder what sort of style it’ll have, Marnie.”

  “Oh, I think I can guess the answer to that one. In fact, I bet it can be summed up in one word: rich.”

  Anne laughed. “Of course. Silly me not to have worked it out. Yes, I would like to see it maybe some time. But that’s not what was on my mind.”

  Marnie crossed the floor and took Anne’s face in her hands. “Come on, spill the beans. Tell auntie Marnie what’s bothering you.”

  “It’s the way Mrs Taverner treats me.” Anne’s voice changed to pure Marlene Dietrich. “Do call me … Barbara.” The first syllable of the name lasted at least half an hour.

  Marnie grinned at her. “But she likes you, Anne.”

  Anne sighed. “She treats me like I’m a kid or some kind of inadequate. You know, Marnie, she kept asking if I’d really put the dates for her meetings with you in the diary.”

  Marnie sat on the corner of Anne’s desk. “Don’t worry about that. She’s just rather self-absorbed, probably like that with everyone.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure. It’s not unusual for women as attractive as she is to be spoilt so they think if they want something it must be right, and everyone else should just accept that.”

  “I don’t see why they should.”

  “Human nature.”

  “But you’re not like that, Marnie. You’re attractive. People are always looking at you, and not just men. Women look at you, too.”

  “Great. So now I’m becoming some kind of gay icon?”

  Anne sniggered. “I didn’t mean it like that. Women look at you because of your style, your taste in clothes. Men look at you for, well, that and … all the rest. I’m digging myself into a hole here.”

  “You’re actually a good example of the point you’re making, Anne. Someone can be attractive – if that’s the word – without it being the centre of their universe, without it making them think of nothing but themselves. If that person has interests beyond their appearance or the effect they have on others, they’ll be too engrossed in those interests to dwell on themselves all the time.”

  “So you and I are lucky that we have things to do that mean we don’t just have to think about what colour to paint our fingernails, right?”

  “Right. Apart from one small detail – we neither of us actually do paint our fingernails.”

  “Fair enough. But you’ve got to admit, Marnie, she is very attractive. I mean, seeing the two of you together, you’d never know you weren’t the same age.”

  “That’s very comforting, considering she’s at least twelve years older than me. Thanks. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Where are you going, Marnie?”

  “To see the builders. I just want to get you a shovel.”

  4

  Marnie loved Docklands. It was one of her favourite parts of London, and she asked the cab driver to drop her off on the corner of Templars’ Wharf so that she could walk round the marina and enjoy the view. She estimated there were a hundred or so craft moored in the basin, mainly river cruisers, but with a scattering of narrowboats and the odd gin palace. Not exactly the Grand Harbour at Monte Carlo on the weekend of the Monaco Grand Prix, but a jaunty spectacle testifying to the wealth of the residents.

  Templars’ Wharf was a mixed development. Across the water from where Marnie stood, a warehouse rose up on the river frontage, several
stories high. She had seen articles about some of its apartments and lofts in magazines and could imagine the spacious open-plan interiors, with exposed steel and brickwork, Oriental carpets scattered over hardwood flooring and light pouring in from windows on both sides. Away over to her right, and filling one complete side of the wharf, Marnie could see more recent modern houses, built in the same yellow London brick as the warehouse. Despite their astronomical prices she knew they were snapped up by eager purchasers as soon as they came on the market. Marnie surmised that the home of Charles and Barbara Taverner, number seven Templars’ Wharf – known as Old Temple Steps – would be one of those. She was wrong.

  The numbers on that side of the marina were all in the higher range. She walked along by the warehouse, past the boats at their moorings, until she came to a row of older houses, Georgian or Regency to judge by their facades. A mystery. Who would have wanted to live in the midst of all the commercial bustle of a dock in the heyday of the Port of London? It was with a feeling of surprise mixed with satisfaction that Marnie discovered number seven. Surprise at its double-fronted grandeur, rising three storeys above her, satisfaction that the front door was exactly the shade of deep red that Marnie had chosen for the vicarage in Knightly St John.

  Before her finger could touch the doorbell a metallic voice greeted her. “Hi, Marnie. Just push the door.” A buzzer sounded. Marnie did as she was told, and the door swung smoothly open.

  Standing on the black-and-white diamond tiles in the hall Marnie barely had time to wonder whether Barbara had been watching out for her – excitement? anticipation? – when a click-clacking of shoes overhead announced her client’s arrival on the landing.

  “Come on up.”

  She was met with a hug and air kisses to both cheeks.

  “Did you drive? I’ll start believing in miracles if you tell me you found a parking place! Or did you offer your body to the security man?”

  “Train and taxi. Less wearing on the nerves … and on the body.”

  Barbara laughed. “Quite. But less fun, perhaps. On both counts. Shall we go in the kitchen? I’ve got coffee on the go. I love that jacket. Suits your colouring perfectly.” She led the way across the landing. “You’ll have to take me as I am, I’m afraid. I just threw on the first things I found in the wardrobe.”

  Marnie smiled to herself. The first things were a shirt and flared trousers, both of black silk, both originating in Paris or Milan. They showed off her slim figure to advantage.

  “That’s okay. There are times when I just pop round to the clothes rail in Tesco’s myself.”

  Barbara hooted and patted Marnie playfully on the shoulder. She turned to check progress on the espresso machine before joining her.

  “You said you wanted to understand my taste. D’you want the Cook’s Tour of the house while the coffee’s brewing?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Barbara led Marnie from room to room. The house looked like a colour spread from a glossy magazine, everything in discreet good taste. At least one whole herd of cows – pedigrees no doubt – had been sacrificed to provide leather for the sofas in the drawing room, the same firm that make the leather for Charles’s car. The dining furniture was in mahogany, with silver candelabra on the table and sideboard. Marnie estimated that the entire room was original Georgian, contemporary with the house itself. Marnie noticed that none of the structure had been altered apart from the kitchen, bath and bedroom areas. The master suite was at first floor level, the same as the living rooms. The three other bedrooms on the floor above were all suites that would have graced a five-star hotel. The quarry at Carrara must have been seriously depleted to produce the marble for the bathrooms.

  On the way back to the kitchen, Barbara waved a hand airily towards a closed door. “That’s Charles’s study. I never go in there. More than my life’s worth.”

  She made a similar gesture passing another room. This time the door was half open. “That’s my den, my refuge when Charles abandons me for his meetings.” Her tone was casual. “I’d apologise for the mess, but believe it or not, that’s tidy by my usual standards.”

  Marnie glanced in. Smaller than most, this room looked lived in. There were magazines on the sofa, a shawl draped over one arm, CD cases on the floor by the hi-fi. Behind the TV tower one wall was filled with vinyl albums, videos, CDs and cassette tapes. It seemed that Barbara’s love of music was matched by her love of technology.

  Back in the kitchen Barbara checked the coffee machine. She pointed at a monitor mounted on the wall over the stainless steel kitchen units. It contributed to the hi-tech feeling of the space. “CCTV.”

  “Ah …”

  “That’s how I spotted you at the door. You sounded surprised when I spoke to you through the intercom.”

  “Quite. You’re worried about security here? Is that perhaps why you’re keen to move to Knightly St John?”

  “No, no. The system came with the house. Charles grew up in the country. He’s always wanted to return to rural surroundings.” Barbara laid a hand on the coffee machine. “How d’you like it, Marnie?”

  “Cappuccino?”

  “Fine. Me too.” She offered her guest a stool at an island unit.

  “And you?” Marnie asked. “Do you long for rural surroundings?”

  Barbara shrugged. “City girl. Bright lights, busy streets, night life, that’s me.”

  “Then Knightly’s an inspired choice. Not a lot of people notice the casinos on their first visit. Or the Café Royal, not to mention the branch of Harvey Nicholls next to the village shop. Seriously, Barbara, you don’t think you’ll find it a little bit quiet for your tastes?”

  Barbara poured skimmed milk into a steel jug. “Seriously, no. Sure the village itself is … a village. But variety is the spice of life, or so they say. I told Charles we could go anywhere he wanted on one condition. Either we live near enough for me to be able to nip back to London any time I chose, or we got a flat that I could keep as a pied-à-terre for frequent visits.”

  “So Docklands’s loss is Knightly’s gain.”

  “Exactly. Although to be accurate, it’s not quite like that. We’re getting a London base anyway, a gorgeous little loft conversion over at Bermuda Reach. I’ll put the spare key for it with the others so you can have a look. You can do the decor there as well. We’ll be able to give you a By Appointment plaque soon!”

  “Handy for the January sales?”

  Barbara guided the nozzle into the jug and turned on the steam valve. “Quite. And for Charles if he has a late board meeting or a dinner and can’t be bothered to travel back.”

  “I thought he was going to retire.”

  “My dear, businessmen never retire. They just stay on as non-executive directors. It’s like doing lunch with the boys and getting a cheque each month plus share bonuses every year to pay for the cruise or the safari.”

  Marnie raised her voice over the rushing sound of the steam jet in the milk jug. “Bermuda Reach is that new Docklands development further along the river, isn’t it?”

  Barbara called over her shoulder. “That’s right. Bit smaller than Templars’ Wharf. Quite exclusive.”

  Marnie gestured at their surroundings. “I couldn’t imagine anywhere more exclusive than this. And I had no idea there were residential houses in amongst the commercial buildings.”

  “Oh, this wasn’t a residence. These were the company’s offices. That’s why the building’s so spacious. Bermuda Reach is mainly warehouse conversions on a smaller scale. You interested? We’re getting a penthouse but there are a few bijoux still available.”

  “I’ve got enough on my hands sorting out Glebe Farm.”

  “Don’t you ever have the need for a place in town, Marnie?”

  “Like you said, Knightly’s not far away. We could always try to get a mooring in Little Venice for one of the boats if we wanted a pied-à-terre. We have two narrowboats between us at the moment.”

  Barbara grinned. “Wouldn’t that b
e a pied-à-l’eau? I wonder if that’s French for a toe in the water. No, I need a bit more space, Marnie, more creature comforts than a boat can provide. Bermuda Reach will be somewhere I can entertain friends.” A rich, warm chuckle. “Girl friends, of course.” She set down the coffee cups and saucers, generously large in deep blue with a gold rim. “When you’ve got the spare key you can look in when you’ve got a moment and give me some ideas for the decor.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. So you’ll be bringing your boat up to Knightly?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “In the spring when you move, presumably?”

  “No, straight away.”

  “Can you do that? What about lock closures, the winter maintenance programme?”

  “There’s a window. From now until Christmas there’s a clear run up the southern part of the Grand Union as far as Braunston tunnel. I can get her to Knightly in less than a week.”

  “But I read that Islington tunnel is closed for partial relining.”

  “She’s not here, Marnie. I’ve already moved her to Little Venice. I got a slot up the side arm to Paddington basin.”

  “That was a stroke of luck.”

  “I had to pull a few strings, my dear.” She laughed warmly. “I know all the people round there. It wasn’t difficult. I’m used to queue-jumping, lots of practice at all those sales at Harvey Nix!”

  Marnie thought that few things failed to work out for Barbara Taverner. They sipped cappuccinos together, and Marnie pulled the scheme design for the vicarage out of her briefcase.

  For the next hour the two women worked their way through Marnie’s proposals, room by room, space by space. Barbara asked questions on every sketch and examined every fabric sample, checking them against Marnie’s photographs and floor plans of the vicarage, making notes on a pad with a black and gold pen. Each was impressed with the other’s attention to detail, and Barbara smiled with satisfaction when Marnie remarked that the pen matched her outfit. Her smile broadened when she noticed that Marnie had even included a nameplate – black oval with white lettering, mounted on the gate pillar – though she had left the wording unspecified.