No Secrets (MARNIE WALKER Book 6)

by Leo McNeir

  “Every few years. The rules are just in the process of changing, becoming more strict, more detailed.”

  “Is Mrs Taverner’s boat up-to-date? Does it comply with all the rules?”

  “I’d imagine so. I’ve only been on board for a few seconds. That was yesterday when I bumped into you there.”

  “But you’d think her boat would be properly maintained?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do these rules that you mentioned relate to the engine, the hull and that sort of thing, or is there more to it?”

  “They cover everything, safety, fire extinguishers, ventilation …”

  “Even the plumbing?”

  “Plumbing?” So that was it. Marnie had a flashback to her arrival on Perfidia, Bruere pushing her out, the other officer hurriedly opening all the windows. He had not just been concerned with letting in the light. “You mean the gas supply?”

  “How often would you check it on your boat, Mrs Walker?”

  “Personally I don’t touch it. They probably examine it at the boatyard when Sally Ann goes in for service each year. And an inspector tests the whole system when the safety certificate comes up for renewal. That’s like the MOT.”

  “No other time?”

  “If I noticed a strong smell of gas, of course, I’d investigate.”

  “Has that ever happened on your boat?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have local gas taps for the different appliances?”

  “Yes. There’s an isolator for the cooker and another for the water heater.”

  “If something went wrong – an escape of gas – would you notice the smell?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Would you know what to do about it?”

  “I’d switch off the supply at the gas bottle.”

  “Mrs Taverner would know about that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, I’m sure she would. Are you saying she was gassed?”

  “I’m just looking into possibilities at this moment in time.”

  Marnie tried not to wince. “But you’ve already stated that you’re treating her death as murder, so you think someone deliberately interfered with the gas system?”

  “Are you aware of the pipework on your boat’s gas supply, Mrs Walker?”

  Marnie had to think about that. She knew roughly where the pipes ran and that there were junctions and valves of some sort at the back of the units in the galley. But it was something she took for granted, like the water running when she turned on the taps. “Well … I know more or less where they are, but it’s not the kind of thing I’d ever touch.”

  “You’d regard that as something for a specialist?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so, presumably, would Mrs Taverner?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Or probable?”

  “Perhaps more probable. I couldn’t imagine Barbara as a plumber.”

  7

  Marnie dreamed of Barbara that night. They were both clambering over a boat – she could not tell which it was – laughing together as they tried to fix a problem that neither of them could quite identify. At one stage Marnie stopped tightening a fitting in the engine compartment with a monkey wrench and pointed at Barbara’s overalls. She had put them on inside out and the label was showing – it was Versace. The sight of it sent them into fits of giggles.

  All the time they worked, Barbara kept up a continuous chattering … Where could she find a dry dock? Perfidia’s hull needed to be blacked … the whole boat needed repainting. Marnie was wracking her brain, trying to think of somewhere, but her mind had gone blank. Where could Barbara get the engine serviced? It was no good, Marnie had forgotten the names of the boatyards. Barbara was looking desperate, exasperated. She began waving her wrench, screaming … Where could she find an engineer to inspect the gas installation? She had to comply with all the new rules … they were so strict … she was worried sick by them! Marie tried to comfort her, telling her they didn’t matter to her any more. She was dead. The rules didn’t apply if you were dead, honestly. No-one could touch you.

  It was one of those moments like in the movies. She sat up in bed, breathless, wide awake. Marnie had never believed things really happened like that; it was just a device dreamed up by some film director for dramatic effect. But she really did feel cold and clammy. Ralph moved beside her.

  “What is it?” His voice was drowsy. He was struggling to wake up. “Marnie, are you all right?”

  She heard him groping on the shelf over the bed, his fingers fumbling for the light switch. There was a click, and one reading lamp came on. Marnie looked at her hands to see if they were shaking. Her upper body exposed, she could feel the cool air on her skin. Ralph pulled her down and held her close to him, tugging the duvet over her shoulders to keep her warm.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Barbara.”

  “Yes. She was crying out to me, Ralph. She wanted me to find an engineer to look at the gas system. It was really worrying her.”

  He put his hand on the back of her head and drew her closer, kissing her hair. “How awful, but it was just a bad dream. Don’t think about it.” He was drifting.

  “No. But Ralph, she was very worried about the gas. She had mentioned it to me. I’d forgotten until then, until I dreamt it. She’d asked me to get the system checked as part of the project.”

  “Mm.”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “Mm.”

  Ralph’s only reply was a long breath that settled into a steady rhythm. Marnie listened to his breathing, trying to calm her mind. Slowly the warmth seeped through to her, and he carried her with him back to oblivion.

  After breakfast Marnie reached her desk before eight. Anne was going to spend the first hour in the office clearing up accounts and correspondence and the rest of Monday morning working on her vacation projects.

  Marnie felt troubled. Something was nagging at her mind. Every time she had an inkling of what it might be, it slipped away from her. So frustrating.

  “Marnie, I’ll need you to sign a couple of cheques … Marnie?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, are you concentrating on something?”

  “I was miles away.”

  “I know. Me too. I’m trying to get down to routine things to take my mind off Barbara. I wonder what’ll happen next.”

  “The police will get on with their investigation, I suppose. In a few weeks’ time they’ll announce they’ve caught someone or – more likely in my opinion – the coroner will give a verdict of accidental death.”

  She was to be proved wrong on both counts.

  “You really think it was an accident, Marnie?”

  “Judging by the little I know of what happened, I think it could be the answer. People can get gassed. It’s rare but not impossible. I can’t imagine anybody wanting to … to murder Barbara.”

  “Presumably you don’t have to go to the police station to give your statement, now that you’ve seen Mr Bruere.”

  “No. I’m sure Chief Inspector Bartlett won’t be heartbroken about that. Although …”

  “What is it?”

  “I ought to tell someone that Barbara was worried about the gas system.”

  “What made you think of that?”

  “I know it was preying on her mind. You remember she had some concerns about Perfidia. The gas was one of them. It came back to me last night in a dream.”

  “And you think you should tell Mr Bartlett about it?” Anne sounded dubious.

  “He’d love that, wouldn’t he, Anne? I can hear him now … You’re telling me the Metropolitan Police should switch their murder investigation because you’ve had a dream? Perhaps you’d like to read the tea-leaves first before I phone them, just to be certain.”

  Anne nodded. “That’s what I was wondering.”

  “I think if I explained about gas leaks – that Barbara thought her system might need
attention, that it could have been a simple unfortunate accident despite what they’ve worked out – maybe they’d think again.”

  She was to be proved wrong about that, too.

  It was coming up to eight o’clock, and Anne turned on the radio. This had become part of their morning ritual in the eighteen months since they began working together at Glebe Farm. The start of the day. The headlines on Radio Four, then switch off and down to work.

  Marnie returned to the file in front of her and was bringing her focus back to the task in hand when the headlines caught her attention. The announcer had said the words, Little Venice. Her head jerked up. Anne was staring at her across the room, and they waited for the item that would follow the reading of the main points of the day.

  ... A man has been arrested and charged with the murder of Mrs Barbara Taverner, wife of City businessman, Charles Taverner. The arrest comes just days after her body was found on their narrowboat in London’s Little Venice. The police have named the man under arrest as Neil Gerard, age forty-two, a freelance journalist living in west London, described as a “close friend’ of the deceased. He was arrested late yesterday evening and is being held at Lisson Grove police station. High street trading in the run-up to Christmas has so far not been as brisk as expected …

  Anne turned off the radio. “Neil Gerard … ever heard of him?”

  Marnie frowned. “I don’t think so, though the name does seem vaguely … mm, not sure.”

  “A journalist.” Anne repeated.

  “More to the point, a close friend, I wonder if that means what I think it does.”

  Anne’s eyes widened. “You think he was a lover?”

  “No idea. She never talked to me about anything like that, anything personal.”

  “So it was murder,” Anne said quietly.

  “The police seem to think so.”

  “Are you still going to tell them your idea about the gas, Marnie?”

  “Dunno. If they’ve actually made an arrest and charged this Neil Gerard, they must have substantial evidence. I could look a real idiot if I start making wild statements about a simple accident caused by a leaky gas tap or something. The police aren’t fools.”

  “So you’re not going to say anything about it?”

  “No. I’ll mind my own business for once. I’ve done my bit to help, and that’s an end to it.”

  Wrong again.

  Anne drove up to the village shop in her red Mini – her pride and joy, a gift from Marnie and Ralph – to see if the morning newspapers carried the story of the arrest of Neil Gerard. They all seemed to follow the same line, based on the police statement. They had not had time to flesh out more details before the morning editions went to press.

  None of them carried a photograph or any additional facts about the accused. They merely reported that he was waiting to appear before magistrates to be committed to trial.

  It was a long and busy day. In the week or two before the Christmas break everyone seemed to want to clear their desk of papers, and Marnie was not surprised at the volume of mail hitting her in-tray.

  All day Marnie found her thoughts returning to Barbara. What would Charles do about The Old Rectory? He probably would not want to live there now. What would he do with Perfidia? There would surely be no question of keeping Barbara’s boat, the boat on which she had died. What would Charles do about their house in Templars’ Wharf? What would he do about the rest of his life … about everything?

  Dusk was drawing in by mid-afternoon – they were approaching the shortest day of the year – when Anne climbed down to the office barn from working on her college projects in the attic. Marnie closed a folder and announced that she had had enough. She reached a senior management decision; it was time for a cup of coffee. Anne had the kettle heating before you could say six shopping days to Christmas. When Anne put the mug down on Marnie’s desk, she found her slowly turning the pages of a notebook.

  “There!” Marnie looked up triumphant, tapping the page in the open book. “She first mentioned it during a phone conversation. It’s in my notes: engineer – inspect gas system – worried – new regs.”

  Anne leaned over to read the note. “Are you changing your mind about telling the police?”

  “No … well, perhaps … yes … no, not really. What good would it do? It doesn’t prove anything. It won’t bring her back to Charles.”

  “Charles,” Anne repeated. “Poor man.”

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking I ought to contact him. I was thinking it’d be easier to write rather than phone.”

  A knock on the door brought the paperboy with the local evening daily. The press had wasted no time in digging out information on Neil Gerard, including a photo. Marnie and Anne looked down at the face of the man accused of killing Barbara. Her “close friend’ of that morning had now been promoted to her “lover’. He was shown standing between two uniformed officers, about to go through a door, presumably at the police station. There was none of the customary effort to conceal his face, no towel or jacket draped over his head. He simply stood patiently, a look of mild concern clouding his features, as if he had just been told that his flight had been delayed by fog or that a book he had ordered was out of stock.

  “He doesn’t look like a murderer, does he?” Anne said quietly.

  “Nor did Dr Crippen, apparently.”

  “No, I don’t mean like that. I meant, he doesn’t seem to be part of the group there. It’s as if he just happens to be in the picture. The murder and the arrest don’t seem to have anything to do with him.”

  “As if he was a bystander,” Marnie muttered. “I see what you mean.”

  They were starting to read the story when Ralph came in. He had just shut down the computer in his study on Thyrsis. The three heads moved close together while they read the articles in the paper. Under her photograph the first gave an account of what had happened to Barbara … the wealthy owner of the boat on which her body was found in the chic quarter of London’s Little Venice. It explained that she had died of gas poisoning after someone had drugged her and tampered with the gas system on the luxury narrowboat, Perfidia.

  “That’s their line,” Ralph observed. “They’re going to stress the wealth aspect, build up the glamour angle. The press loves a good society murder, especially if it goes with a touch of scandal.”

  “The photo of Barbara certainly makes her look very attractive,” Marnie agreed. “Difficult not to, of course.”

  A witness staying on a nearby boat had apparently heard a heated argument on Perfidia the previous evening. She had heard shouting and seen a man, later identified as Neil Gerard, leave the boat with an angry expression on his face as he stormed off along the towpath. Late the next morning the witness had noticed the curtains were drawn on Perfidia and through the gaps she could see the lights were still on, even though it was bright and sunny. She had knocked on the hatch to see if Barbara, whom she had known in the area for some years, was all right. Remembering the commotion of the previous evening, and becoming increasingly worried about her neighbour, the witness tried the door, found it was unlocked and went in to discover the deceased lying sprawled on the floor of the saloon. There was a strong smell of gas. With considerable presence of mind, the witness ascertained that Barbara Taverner was dead and immediately called 999.

  “So that’s how it happened.” Marnie sat staring in front of her.

  Ralph turned and perched on the side of the desk. “How … exactly?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Barbara died from gas poisoning – or so it suggests in that account – so how was she killed? You can’t suddenly turn a gas-tap on someone in the course of a row.”

  “Perhaps he turned the gas on and she died in the night.” Anne frowned as soon as she had spoken. “No, that doesn’t work, does it?”

  Marnie shook her head. “No. She would’ve smelled the gas, presumably.”

  Ralph pointed at the article. “It says she was drugged.”


  They read the paper again. Marnie sat back in her chair. “Not enough detail, not enough facts.”

  Anne picked up the phone as soon as it started ringing. “Walker and Co, good evening … Yes, she’s here. Hold on, please … Sorry? … Oh, I don’t need to ask who it is. I’ll pass you over, Mr Bartlett.”

  Marnie rolled her eyes and grimaced as she picked up the phone. “Good evening. What can I do for you?”

  It was less than half an hour before the unmarked police car arrived. It had been a frequent visitor to Glebe Farm in previous months and went straight to its customary spot outside the house. Detective Chief Inspector Bartlett and his colleague Detective Sergeant Marriner climbed out and walked across the courtyard. Marnie had joked in the past that she would be allocating an exclusive parking space for their use. It was not much of a joke. But they had not had much of a relationship. She had sometimes managed to give them the wrong impression and, although they had usually found themselves on the same side, the detectives never quite trusted her. And she knew it.

  Another feature of their relationship was the coffee ritual. If they were on what Marnie regarded as a hostile mission they refused any refreshment. On some friendlier occasions they accepted. Marnie and Anne waited for their visitors, wondering which way the pendulum would swing. Ralph had gone back to Thyrsis to avoid giving the impression that they were feeling embattled.

  Marnie managed a smile as the men knocked and entered. “Hallo. Come in. Let me take your coats.”

  “Good of you to see us at short notice, Mrs Walker. But then we know you work late.”

  Marnie was weighed down by the heavy winter coats. “I think you know all my routines, Mr Bartlett. I have no secrets from you.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Take a seat.”

  Anne waved from the kitchen area. “Hi! Am I making you coffee?”

  “Thank you.”

  Marnie repeated the smile – two in one visit was a record – and grew bolder. “In this season of good will, are we allowed to offer you a mince pie to go with it?”