by Leo McNeir
“Great idea. I could eat a buffalo.”
“No probs. We’ve got one in the fridge, as usual. Guess who was on the phone just now?”
“Princess Di … the Pope … the Queen?”
“Yes, but not in that order.”
Marnie rolled her eyes. “What did Barbara want to talk about this time, the vicarage or the boat?”
“Both.”
“Any problems?”
“Not really. Their solicitor’s on target for completion of the contract. She wants you to go ahead and order a name plate.”
“I thought Barbara was going to wait a while.”
“That’s what I reminded her. She just said it might take time to get it made.”
“And she’s insisting on calling it you-know-what?”
Anne altered her voice. Her reply was bright and bubbly. “The Old Rectory, my dear! Of course, what else?”
Marnie laughed. “That’s good. Anything else?”
Anne consulted her notepad. “Two things. The meeting tomorrow … she has to cancel.”
They chorused in unison. “Something has come up.”
“She said everything was going so well, it wouldn’t be a disaster. She agrees with everything on the plans we sent.”
“Good. And we get to have a free weekend. Can’t be bad.”
“There was one other thing, Marnie. She’s quite concerned about the boat, making sure it’s all okay. She’s planning to set off next week.”
“I’ll give her a ring. We’ve got it booked in at the boatyard near Bull’s Bridge. It’s on her route. She can call in for them to give it a quick once-over. She’s probably just anxious to have everything going well for her solo run.”
“She said one or two things were bothering her.”
“Such as?”
“Didn’t specify.”
“I’ll ring her … after we’ve had that sandwich.”
Anne got up and headed for the kitchen area at the back of the office barn. “I’ll dig out the buffalo.”
On the following Saturday morning with less than two weeks to Christmas, Marnie and Anne arrived at Euston station. They had spent most of the train journey reading, Marnie studying the project file, Anne learning about the Bauhaus. They took the stairs to the underground taxi rank and queued for five minutes before settling back in a cab for the journey west to Little Venice.
“When’s she setting off, Marnie?”
“Tomorrow morning. It’ll be an easy trip for her first day. She’ll probably call in at Sainsbury’s at Kensal Green to stock up with supplies, then she only has to chug along to Bull’s Bridge. There are no locks on that stretch, remember. She’ll easily find somewhere to tie up after the junction.”
“I wonder what she’ll do while they’re checking Perfidia over in the boatyard. Will they need the boat all day?”
“Depends what they find. If everything’s okay I expect they’ll send her on her way some time in the afternoon. She could make it to the first lock at Cowley Peachey before it gets dark.”
“She didn’t seem bothered that we hadn’t found her a permanent mooring yet. Isn’t that going to cause problems?”
A wry smile from Marnie. “Not for Barbara. She’s got it all worked out. Perfidia will stay tied up opposite our boats over Christmas and new year.”
“That’s fine, but she’s only allowed to leave the boat in one place for fourteen days before moving on.”
“Correct. And what happens in the first week in January?”
Anne mulled this over. Enlightenment dawned. “Ah …”
“Precisely. BW maintenance, replacing a lock gate at Cosgrove to the south of us.”
Anne continued the story. “Of course, and the whole flight of locks at Stoke Bruerne to the north is being drained for repairs.”
Marnie raised both palms. “Voilà! She’ll claim she’s shut into that pound and can’t move until the locks are re-opened.”
“And there’s a fair chance she’ll be iced in, too.” Anne chuckled. “She’s a smart cookie, that one, doesn’t miss a trick.”
“And there’s always plan B,” Marnie added.
Anne looked thoughtful. “Amaze me. What else could she do?”
“As a last resort, charm the BW officials. They’ll be queuing up to make her a special case because she’s a woman navigating her boat single-handed in the depths of winter. They won’t even realise they’re eating out of her hand.”
Anne laughed and imitated The Voice. “Thank you so much, my dear!”
“And she’ll have bought time, enough time for us to find her a mooring, with any luck.”
The partition between their compartment and the driver slid open and the cabbie called back.
“Whereabouts in Little Venice did you want, love? We’re nearly there.”
“If you could drop us off near the pub on the corner by the bridge and the canal office, that’ll be fine.”
“That’s the bridge without traffic lights?”
“That’s the one. Anywhere near there will do.”
“You got it.”
Marnie checked her watch. “Bang on time.”
“D’you know where she’s tied up, Marnie?”
“On the arm going towards Paddington Basin, she said. Oh, did I tell you? Barbara’s insisting on taking us for lunch.”
“That’s nice. Where are we going?”
“I think she has in mind –”
The driver called back over his shoulder again. “Sorry, love, I think there’s been an accident or something. There’s a police car blocking the road off the bridge.”
“This’ll do. We can walk it from here.”
Marnie paid the driver and they crossed the canal, walking briskly in the chilly air.
“Not the quietest part of London at times,” Marnie observed. “There’s the police station just up the road, ambulances from St Mary’s hospital day and night, fire station round the corner …”
Right on cue they heard a siren wailing in the distance. They took the path down to the canalside and strode on past the sleeping waterbuses in the pool of Little Venice where tourists queued in large numbers for pleasure trips in the months of fine weather. Today the place was deserted. Rounding the corner of the arm they saw Perfidia straight away. It was no surprise to find that Barbara had been given the first mooring. The side door was open and, calling hallo, Marnie led the way down into the cabin. She turned at the foot of the steps to find herself confronted by a man in a dark coat and a troubled expression. Their eyes met and locked on.
“What are you doing here?” they said simultaneously.
“Marnie Walker,” said the man.
“Chief Inspector Bruere.”
Behind Bruere Marnie could see another man moving about in the sleeping cabin, busy opening the curtains and the windows to let in the light. Bruere took Marnie by the elbow and began guiding her back to the steps. A siren could be heard some way away. It was getting nearer.
“Mrs Walker, I’ve got to ask you to leave. Now.”
“What’s happened?” Marnie’s face was draining of colour. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
The detective followed Marnie up onto the bank where Anne was standing, rigid with apprehension. All around them men and women in uniform were hurrying towards the boat. Orders were being called out. Blue and white incident tape was being drawn across the towpath to form a barrier.
“Barbara …” Marnie muttered softly.
“You know the owner?”
“Of course I do.”
Bruere eyed their briefcases and document folders. “We’ll need to ask you some questions, Mrs Walker, but first I have work to do.”
“And I have questions for you, Mr Bruere, though I very much fear I know the answer.”
Bruere gave her an appraising look and turned to a small group of officers behind him.
“Grove. Take Mrs Walker and her friend, get them a cup of coffee or something. One hour, back here.”
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br /> “Sir.”
A woman of about Marnie’s age detached herself from the group and came forward. Her expression was grim. Bruere left without another word and climbed through the side doorway of Perfidia.
“I’m detective constable Grove, Sue Grove.”
“Marnie Walker, and this is Anne Price. You’re not going to tell us what’s happening here, are you?”
“We’ve got more questions than facts at the moment, Mrs Walker. Come on, let’s find some coffee.”
“If you want somewhere private,” Marnie began. Grove nodded. “There’s a boat over there, just past the other bridge, not far.”
“Your boat?”
“A friend’s.”
“And you’re authorised to go on it?”
“Yes. It belongs to my solicitor.”
Grove stared. “You want your solicitor to be present?”
“They’re on a Caribbean cruise for the next three weeks.”
The bustle around them was intensifying as they walked back along the path.
They kept their coats on while the heating system on Rumpole warmed up. Marnie made coffee, her stomach a lead weight. Anne kept herself occupied by bringing out crockery and a container of sugar. She found a jar of dried milk and rummaged in a drawer for spoons.
The detective sat at the built-in eating unit. “What brought you here today, Mrs Walker?” Her tone was conversational, but she had a notebook open on the table.
Marnie looked up from spooning coffee into mugs. She spoke quietly and calmly. “I’m not going to tell you a single thing until you explain what’s happened.”
“That’s your privilege, but if you know the owner of the boat and want to help us, it could be important.”
Marnie stared at her. “The owner of the boat is called Barbara Taverner. She’s a client of ours. We’re here to discuss her project.” Marnie glanced towards their bags. “Now tell me what’s going on. Please. You’re obviously not here because everything is fine. As a human being the least you can do is tell me how my client is.”
Grove looked down at her pad.
Marnie continued. “She’s … hurt?”
The police officer raised her head. “Mrs Walker, Marnie, I’m not supposed to –”
“It’s all right,” Marnie interrupted. “You just did.”
The only sound in the cabin was a sharp intake of breath from Anne, who covered her mouth with a hand. “Oh no. She can’t …”
Marnie reached out and held Anne to her, both looking desolate. After a few moments Marnie released Anne and bent down to reach into a cupboard.
“If you don’t mind, Miss Grove, I think we need something a little stronger than Nescafé.” She pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured some into two of the mugs. “I don’t suppose you’re able to join us.”
The police officer shook her head.
DC Grove had radioed to Bruere that they were on the narrowboat Rumpole and had given directions to find it. The DCI joined them in less than an hour. The cabin was now comfortably warm but there was a chill in the atmosphere that penetrated to the bone. Bruere accepted the offer of coffee and while Anne made it, he came straight to the point.
“First of all I want to clear up why you’re here.”
Marnie explained about the project, the meeting and Barbara’s plans for the journey up to Knightly St John. Her filofax was on the table and she passed Bruere the business card given to her by Charles Taverner. She produced their railway tickets as evidence of their journey and showed Bruere the meetings arranged with Barbara in her diary.
Bruere flicked through the pages. “So you’ve been having meetings every week with Mrs Taverner?”
“Not actually. We’ve only had one before today. I saw her at their home in Templars’ Wharf. The others were cancelled.”
“Why’s that?”
“We were making good progress. They weren’t needed.”
“Then why put them in the diary?”
Marnie shrugged. “To reserve the times, I suppose. Barbara wanted to keep the options open.”
“And the meeting last weekend?”
“She said she had something else on.”
Bruere’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”
“And you’d just arrived when I saw you on the boat?”
“Yes. So had you by the look of it.”
“Why isn’t her husband here if they’re going on a boat journey?”
“She was going to travel alone.”
“Alone? Is that usual?”
“It’s not uncommon. Anyway, Charles isn’t such a keen boater as Barbara, and he has business to attend to.”
“I see.”
Bruere handed the business card to DC Grove. “Give that to DS Cuthbert. Tell him to make contact. I’ll be over as soon as I’ve finished here.”
Sue Grove went out without speaking, and Bruere paused for thought. “So, she was going on a trip alone.” He murmured the words, stirring the coffee.
Marnie watched him. “That’s right. The boat was hers, really.” As an afterthought she added, “Charles hadn’t been on it for years, I believe.”
Bruere looked up sharply. “What did you say?”
“Barbara was a keen boater …” Marnie hesitated, realising that she had been referring to Barbara in the past tense. “Charles came on the boat for social outings, of course, but he didn’t go on long journeys.”
“Are you sure about that, Mrs Walker?” Bruere sounded doubtful.
“Yes, I’m quite sure. Barbara mentioned it when we met.”
Bruere stared at his mug of coffee.
Marnie went on. “You sound as if you don’t believe me, but I assure you –”
“What shaving cream do you use, Mrs Walker?”
Taken aback, Marnie felt her cheeks redden. “Sorry?”
“And what brand of aftershave?”
Ralph met Marnie and Anne at the central station in Milton Keynes. He had gone in by taxi, wanting them to be greeted by a friendly face and Marnie not to have to bother with driving. He hugged them both as if they had returned from a long and arduous voyage, and it occurred to him that that was not so far from the truth.
He pointed the big four-wheel-drive out of the station car park and headed for the by-pass. Marnie sighed as she leaned against the head restraint, and Anne sat in silence behind them, gazing unseeing out of the window at the trees flashing past in the pale wintry light.
“Marnie, I’m sure you don’t want to talk about it, and I’m not going to force the issue, but when you’re ready …”
“It’s just so incredible.”
“Of course.”
“You know, Ralph, I can’t quite get hold of my feelings. That probably sounds crazy, maybe even heartless, but …”
Ralph refrained from platitudes. He concentrated on driving.
“I feel the same, Marnie.” Anne had hardly spoken on their journey back. “I feel sort of numb, awful about it, because I ought to be crying or something, and I’m not.”
“We’re both in a state of shock, Anne.” Marnie touched Ralph’s arm. “That’s why Ralph came in to drive us home.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve eaten anything, have you?” he asked.
Marnie shook her head. “Didn’t feel like it. Are you hungry, Anne?”
“No. My appetite’s disappeared.”
“I’ve got some soup for you when we get home.” Ralph’s tone suggested there was to be no argument about it.
“It’s sweet of you, darling, but –”
“Doctor’s orders,” he insisted.
“Ralph, you’re a doctor of philosophy,” Marnie pointed out. “A DPhil, not a medic.”
“Exactly. That’s better than not being a doctor at all. Trust me, I’m an economist.”
A half-smile floated across Marnie’s face. “You win, doc.”
“And after that,” he continued, “I suggest –”
“After
that,” Marnie interrupted, “I have to get in touch with Detective Chief Inspector Bartlett.”
“Why?”
“Bruere wants me to make a statement … Anne, too. He regards us as peripheral, but still needs us to confirm in writing what we told him. It’ll be part of the evidence. Bartlett will arrange it all.”
“Evidence,” Ralph muttered. “Bartlett, eh?”
“Yes. That’ll be fun. He’ll be overjoyed to get the news that I’m coming to see him.”
“Sodding hell!” DCI Bartlett exclaimed after putting the phone down. He had just returned from Christmas shopping in Oxford with his wife. His mood had been far from seasonal good cheer when he picked up the messages on the answerphone. The fourth and final one had been from the duty sergeant at the station in Towcester, informing him that DCI Bruere of the Metropolitan Police had left a word for him. Mrs Marnie Walker of Glebe Farm, Knightly St John would be coming in on Monday morning to give a statement. That was the icing on the cake. “Sodding hell!”
“Language!” His wife’s voice above the sound of shopping being put away in cupboards and fridge in the kitchen.
“That’s all I need,” he murmured to himself. “Marnie bloody Walker. What’s she up to now?”
The soup was shop-bought but the carton claimed it was made from organic carrots and coriander and, to anyone who noticed, it would have tasted good. They were sitting in the saloon on Sally Ann, and in her mind Marnie was making the comparison with the bleak activity they had seen that morning on Perfidia.
“Did the police actually say what they were investigating?” Ralph was at the table cutting a baguette into chunks and putting them into a basket.
Marnie put her spoon down. “They didn’t go so far as to say the words – do they ever tell you anything? – but it was all too obvious what was going on.”
“You mean it was obvious what had happened, concerning Barbara. But did you get the impression they thought there might’ve been an accident, perhaps?”
“I don’t think detective chief inspectors are called out for accidents, Ralph.”