by Leo McNeir
“That would be nice. Is this a season of good will, Mrs Walker?”
“The shops have been preparing us for it since around Easter.” She checked herself. Too flippant. Bartlett had not come to ask what she wanted in her Christmas stocking.
“It’s difficult to remember good will when you’re investigating a murder.”
“Is that why you’re here, Mr Bartlett? I thought that was Mr Bruere’s responsibility down in London.”
“I’m assisting his investigation locally.”
“So how can we help you? I’ve given a statement to Mr Bruere, told him everything I know.”
“You’re aware a man has been arrested and charged? His name is Neil Gerard. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“Mrs Taverner never mentioned him to you?”
“No, as I told Mr Bruere. She never spoke about any of her friends or acquaintances with me.”
“Are you sure you never heard of him?”
Marnie kept her voice calm and even. “Positive.”
DS Marriner joined in. “You’ve had your boat a few years now, haven’t you?”
“The boat? Yes, a couple.”
“You’re quite knowledgeable about boating matters, I expect.”
“I try to keep up with what’s going on.”
“You read the boating magazines?”
“When I have the time.”
“I believe you’ve even featured in the odd article yourself.”
A warning bell sounded somewhere in the distance. Marnie was grateful that Anne was serving coffee and mince pies, which gave her time for thought. The police had been doing their research on her. Why? The fact that she had donated a collection of important drawings and documents to the National Canal Museum two years ago was no secret. They had been bequeathed to her, and her generosity had been reported in the press – the boating magazines and the national media – in flattering terms. Where was this leading?
As soon as they had taken their first bite of mince pie and sipped their coffees, Marriner took up the line again. “That is correct, isn’t it, Mrs Walker? I understand you became quite famous at one point.”
“I just did the right thing and the press got hold of it. They must’ve wanted a good news story at the time and I was in the right place to provide it.”
“You were interviewed in the press and on TV, I believe.”
“Famous for fifteen minutes, as they say. Yes, but that’s in the past now. I’m back to reality.”
Bartlett again. “Do you read all the boat magazines, Mrs Walker?”
“Like I said, when I get the time.”
“Do you read Canal and Boating World?”
Marnie hesitated. The name seemed unfamiliar, somehow an amalgam of the titles she usually read. “Is it a new one?”
“You don’t recognise the name?”
“Not offhand.”
Marriner reached inside his jacket and produced a magazine. He held it up so that Marnie could see the title. It was indeed Canal and Boating World. “Do you keep a scrap book?”
“A what?”
“I do.” It was Anne who answered. “I keep cuttings about things we’re involved in.”
Bartlett turned towards Anne. “Is it here?”
Anne nodded towards a low filing cabinet by her desk. “In the files’
“Can I see it?”
Without a word Anne knelt down and in seconds pulled out a file which she handed to Bartlett. He thumbed through the pages. Everything was neatly labelled, each section relating to a story or a series of events. It chronicled the lives of Marnie, Ralph and Anne, their village, its triumphs and tragedies. One of the earliest items was the coverage of Marnie’s donation to the museum. There were photographs and articles from national, local and boating papers and magazines.
“You really were famous. Politicians would give their eye teeth for favourable comments like this. They made you out to be a national hero.”
Marnie shook her head. “I only did –”
Bartlett interrupted, holding up the scrap book. “You recognise this article?”
Marnie craned forward to see. There was a photo of herself standing at a microphone, making the brief speech she had given at the opening ceremony. It was one of the most commonly used images at the time. She sat back. “Sure.”
“You know it? You’ve seen it before?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t seem to be in any doubt about that.”
“No.”
Marriner opened Canal and Boating World. He stood and walked across to Marnie, handing her the magazine. There was the article, there was the photo. Marnie nodded. “That’s it.” What’s the big deal? she wondered.
Bartlett held up Anne’s scrap book. “And there it is again.”
“So I see.”
Bartlett got up and passed Marnie the scrap book. “Compare the two, Mrs Walker.”
The label in Anne’s careful printing was Canal and Boating World, plus the date.
Marnie stared at the page. “I must’ve forgotten this one.”
“Even though you immediately recognised the photograph?”
“There were lots like it at the time.”
“Look closer, if you would.”
Marnie saw it at once, just as Bartlett began his next question. She froze.
“Did you say you’d never heard of Neil Gerard, Mrs Walker?”
Staring up at her from the page, immediately below the picture of herself, the words stood out in clear print. Words and photographs by Neil Gerard.
“I …”
Anne came across the room and looked down at the article. Marnie tried to regain her composure.
“The fact that someone wrote an article about me doesn’t mean I knew them. There were pieces in the Times, the Guardian, the Telegraph, others, but I don’t know the journalists who wrote them or the people behind the cameras.”
“Of course not.”
Marnie made an effort to regulate her breathing and appear unflustered. This talk was reminding her of other occasions when the police had wrong-footed her, when she was entirely innocent of anything except lack of memory. There was a pause while they all drank from their mugs. Anne offered round the plate of mince pies. Both police officers declined. A bad sign?
“It’s interesting how some people are taken up by the media, Mrs Walker. Did you enjoy being feted in the press like that?”
“It only lasted for a few days. Then it was over.”
“You’re not accustomed to that kind of treatment?”
“I earn my living doing designs for decorating our clients’ houses and flats. It’s a backroom job, unless you’re one of the TV makeover people.”
“So you’re not really used to being in the public eye?”
“No.”
“It must’ve been quite a special experience at the time, being talked to by media people, outside the ordinary routine of your life.”
“Yes.”
“Take a look at the article again, would you please.”
“It looks like all the others,” Marnie observed, patting the scrap book.
“Almost, but not quite. Have another look.”
This was getting tedious, but Marnie did as Bartlett asked. It was only then that she understood the point he was making. And her heart sank. Without trace.
“I felt such a fool.”
Ralph had sat Marnie down in the saloon of Sally Ann while he and Anne prepared supper. He had poured a glass of red Bordeaux and put it in front of her. She hardly spared it a glance. Anne was busy following a recipe for a white sauce to pour over leeks that would be baked au gratin. Ralph continued the conversation while washing leeks under the tap.
“An interview?”
“Yes. Bartlett argued that an interview wasn’t like an ordinary article. An interview involved someone talking to me. It meant face to face.”
; “Well, that’s true, I suppose, on the whole.”
“Thanks. I thought you were supposed to be on my side … on the whole.”
“On the whole means normally but not necessarily exclusively.”
Marnie looked glum. “I didn’t actually give any individual interviews, as far as I remember.”
“Then Ralph’s right, Marnie. There were probably times when you were asked questions by several journalists at once. You couldn’t know who they all were, could you?”
“And some would’ve taken facts out of the museum’s press release,” Ralph added. “And from your speech. An article can sometimes be written in the form of an interview to create a more direct personal style. It’s just a technique that journalists use.”
“Damn! Why didn’t I think to say that? When Bartlett’s got me on the back foot, I just can’t think straight.”
“You can mention it when Bartlett next contacts you for a follow-up statement, if he does.”
“Oh he’ll be back all right to arrest me as an accomplice, part of Neil Gerard’s plot to …” Marnie’s voice died away. “I didn’t mean to joke about it.”
“I doubt if Bartlett will be taking any more action, Marnie.”
“Then why did he try to catch me out like that?”
“So you didn’t recall the name of someone who wrote an article about you two years ago. So what? It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I denied even having heard of the magazine.”
“Which magazine was it?”
“Canal and Boating World.”
Ralph finished drying the leeks in kitchen paper and placed them in the baking dish. He paused, looking at them as if admiring their symmetry. “Canal and Boating World?” He said it slowly. “No such magazine. If there is, I’ve never heard of it.”
“Really?” A note of hope in Marnie’s voice. “Are you sure?”
“As my American colleagues say, sure I’m sure. I don’t think such a magazine exists.”
“It must’ve existed, Ralph. The police have got it. Anne put a cutting from it in the scrapbook. I was featured in it.”
Anne poured the sauce evenly over the leeks, put down the bowl and reached for her notepad.
8
There was a tense atmosphere in the office of Walker and Co the following morning. Marnie was staring at the screen of her computer as if trying to look into its very soul. She had been drafting a letter since she and Anne first opened up and started work. On the other side of the room Anne held the phone pressed close to her ear, an expression of impatience clouding her features. Between attempted calls she took letters from the pile of that morning’s post and sorted them into batches.
“Uh!” It was a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Doesn’t anybody at BW do any work at all?”
“BW?” Marnie took her eyes from the screen. “Why are you phoning British Waterways? Have we got a problem with the boats?”
“No. It’s this magazine business. I’m trying to get it sorted out.”
“It’s only just nine o’clock, Anne. Some people have to travel to work. You only have to stroll back through the spinney or climb down the loft ladder.”
“I suppose so, it’s just that – Hallo? Oh, good, there you are. I’d like to talk to someone about your magazine, Canal and Boating World … Yes there is, take my word for it … You may not know it, but … Well can I talk to someone who deals with publications … Yes, that’s fine.”
Marnie returned to her computer leaving Anne waiting to be put through. She read what she had written so far, written and rewritten a dozen times.
Dear Charles,
I’m so sorry about Barbara. It has been such a dreadful shock and I can only barely imagine what you have been going through these past few days. Please accept my sincere condolences.
In the short time I knew Barbara I regarded her as more than a client and I believe we were becoming friends. I will miss her warmth and gaiety. She was a very special person.
You will need to reassess your plans for the future, so I’ll wait to hear from you whenever you are ready and able to take decisions. I realise you will have much to occupy you at this difficult time, but if there is anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to contact me.
Take care,
Marnie
It all seemed so inadequate. But what could she say? What can anyone say to a man who has lost the most important thing in his life?
“Yes! I knew it had to be something like that.”
Marnie was only vaguely aware that Anne had raised her voice. She wondered about the ending of the draft letter. Take care seemed consoling in a way, but was it too lame? Perhaps she should change that to –
“Marnie? Did you hear?”
“Er, no, sorry. Did I hear what?”
“Canal and Boating World. It really did exist. I’ve just spoken to BW’s public relations department.”
Marnie looked surprised. “But we knew it existed. We had it in our hands just yesterday evening.”
“Yes, but I’ve found out why we didn’t remember it. You can explain to Mr Bartlett.”
“Go on.”
“They only produced five issues. It was costing too much, so they dropped it. You were in issue number four. That’s where I got it for the scrapbook.”
“I don’t recall buying it.”
“It came free to everyone who paid for a boat licence. That’s why it was too costly. I think you should tell the police. They’d believe you then.”
“I’m glad you’ve solved the mystery, Sherlock, but I think I’ll wait and see if the police ever get back to me on this case. You never know what we might stir up.”
“Okay.” Anne went back to sorting the post.
Marnie got up and walked across to her friend. “It was really nice of you to find out about the magazine. Thanks, Anne.”
“Don’t mention it, Watson. Have you been writing something? Do you want it to go out with today’s post? I’m trying to get as much sent off as possible before everything closes down for Christmas.”
“Good thinking. I definitely want this letter to go out today. Trouble is, I’m not really happy with it.”
“Can I help?”
“You can look at it and see what you think.”
They went back to Marnie’s desk and read the letter on the screen.
Anne saw the opening words. “Oh …” She read in silence and nodded when she reached the end.
“What do you think?” Marnie asked.
“It’s … I’ve never written anything like that. It seems fine to me.”
“Really? Reading it again, it just seems like a collection of clichés, trite sentiments and platitudes.”
“What else can you say? It’s not slushy or sentimental. He’ll just read it and know you’re thinking about him, know we all are, even though we can’t do anything to make it better.”
“That’s a point.” Marnie sat down and typed. She moved the reference to condolences to the end and expanded it as the final sentence.
Ralph and Anne join me in sending our sincere condolences.
“Thanks, Marnie. That’s nice.”
“It still feels inadequate.”
“Show it to Ralph. But I think you should just get it posted so that it’s done. That’s the main thing.”
“Yes. And I expect that’ll be the last we hear of Charles, except maybe a little formal note thanking us for our good wishes.”
“And perhaps something about the funeral,” Anne added.
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“I’ve made a note on my list to send flowers.”
“You and your lists … where would we be without them?”
During the break for a sandwich lunch, Marnie consulted Ralph about Charles and they took two decisions: Marnie should send her letter of condolence without further alteration; and she should phone DCI Bartlett and briefly explain why she had had no recollection of the short-lived and now defunct Briti
sh Waterways magazine.
It was late afternoon with dusk already enveloping Glebe Farm when Marnie eventually managed to speak with Bartlett. He listened patiently to her account, thanked her for phoning, and that was that. Anti-climax. Anne had set off to the village shop to post the day’s letters, including the one to Charles Taverner, which Marnie had written out by hand rather than sending it typed. She was alone in the office when the call came in.
“Walker and Co, good afternoon.”
“Marnie, it’s Charles. Is it convenient to speak?”
“Charles …” She struggled to keep her voice even. “Yes, of course. How are you?” She wished she could bite her tongue off. Stupid question!
“Not too bad. How are you?”
“Fine. Actually, I’ve just sent you a letter, you know …”
“Thank you. Look, I know it’s a terrible imposition, but I wonder if you could possibly do something for me.”
“Of course.”
“There’s a lot to sort out here, as you can imagine. I’m going to stay at a place I know in Antigua for a week or two – you know this house in London is sold and I have to work out my arrangements. Could you … I mean, would it be asking too much to … There are things that need to be done.”
“Charles, whatever help you need, I’ll do it gladly. Is it about The Old Rectory?”
“Yes, and the boat.”
“The boat? That could pose a few problems … access … I don’t have any keys.”
A pause. “There’s the spare set. I’m pretty sure Barbara left them hanging up in the box in the kitchen at the rectory.”
“Of course, I remember. What would you like me to do?”
Marnie pulled the notepad towards her and began writing. It was only after she had finished the call and was completing her notes that she realised that Ralph had come for their usual afternoon coffee. At the same time Anne arrived, her nose and cheeks pink from the chilly air.
“If it gets any colder, I’ll be putting in for a sledge and a team of huskies.” She pulled off her fleece and headed for the kitchen area, dropping a bundle of letters on the desk in passing. She stopped, sensing that something was in the air. “Everything all right?”