by Leo McNeir
“Is everything all right, Marnie? You don’t sound overjoyed. I thought these Docklands jobs were right up your street.”
“Just trying to contain my excitement.”
Moments later they ended the conversation and disconnected. Marnie sat staring at Gerard’s list of names. Only then did she see that Ralph had come into the office. He looked enquiringly in her direction from the doorway. Turning her head, Marnie spotted Anne descending the wall ladder from the loft.
“Hi! Are we all ready for a cup of …” Anne glanced from Marnie to Ralph. “What’s up?”
Marnie outlined that morning’s news, starting with Gerard’s move from Hemel to Milton Keynes. Agreement that this was a Bad Thing was unanimous.
“Then Neil Jeffries rang.” Marnie shook her head slowly.
“Nothing wrong is there?” Anne looked concerned. “We’re bang on target with all the Willards’ projects.”
“He wants us to start on a new job in docklands … wine bar and restaurant … Bermuda Reach.”
Ralph looked as if he was not following the reason for her lack of enthusiasm.
Anne was totally bewildered. “That goes down as good news in my book, Marnie, even great news. What’s the problem?”
“The owner is Ian Stuart.”
“Ah …” Ralph understood.
Anne looked blank. “Who’s he?”
Marnie realised at that point that Anne was not up-to-date on the Gerard front. She replied slowly. “He is the problem.”
After the coffee break Marnie was alone in the office again. She was convinced she had given a reassuringly confident outline of the situation, at least as far as Anne was concerned. It was important not to cause her anxiety when she had studies to pursue.
For the second time that morning Anne descended the loft ladder from her room over the office.
“Hi again.” Marnie aimed at a breezy carefree style. “What brings you to these parts?”
Anne jumped down from the third rung of the ladder. “Problems with concentration, noise disturbance.”
Marnie was baffled. “That you can’t concentrate, I can understand – there’s a lot happening just now. But noise?” Marnie cocked an ear towards the door and the building site beyond. “I can’t hear anything.”
“Not my problems of concentration, Marnie … yours. You’ve been sitting there immobile ever since I went up to my room, half an hour ago.”
Marnie was aghast. “Is it that long? This is turning into the incredible shrinking day.”
“Longer. And I can’t get on with my work because I can hear your brain clanking like a steam hammer.”
“Oh …”
“It’s no use. Whether you like it or not, you need me to help you with this Gerard thing.”
“But you’ve got projects to do for college and –”
“I’m well ahead with them. I’ve got the whole summer term to do them and I’ve got everything worked out. Easy.”
Marnie stretched and yawned. “I give in.
Anne pulled her chair over to Marnie’s desk and sat down, notepad at the ready. “So … follow-up.”
“Follow-up to what?”
Anne sighed. “To the phone call you’re about to make to Charles Taverner, of course. He probably doesn’t know about Neil Gerard’s move to our friendly local jailhouse.”
“Where they have a unit to help stop people killing themselves?”
“That’s the one.”
Marnie pressed the conference button on the phone so that Anne could listen to the conversation. She made the call and Anne was right. Charles knew nothing of the planned move. But he quickly grasped its significance.
“That means he’ll be just down the road from –”
“I spotted that, Charles.”
“And his sister rang you up to tell you … interesting.”
“There’s something else. Willards want me to do a restaurant job for them at – guess where? – Bermuda Reach.”
“You’ll be dealing with Stuart?”
“You guessed.”
“Very interesting.”
“It’s just a coincidence, Charles.”
“Then here’s another one. We have a buyer for Perfidia.”
“Since when?”
“Since Mike Brent rang me earlier this morning.”
“Mike Brent?”
“We’ll be needing to liaise with him about delivering the boat back to Little Venice once the refit’s completed.”
“You mean I’ll need to liaise with him, presumably.” Marnie noticed that Anne was writing on her pad. “Is he in a hurry?”
“I understand his customer’s willing to wait. Can you check details with him, Marnie?”
“I’ll probably get Anne to contact him to agree a timetable.”
“Anne?”
“She is part of the firm. You were telling me just recently how much you admired her work.”
“Of course. But I thought you might … no, you’re right. You must organise things as you see fit, Marnie.”
Charles had barely managed to conceal his disappointment, but Marnie was determined not to relent. She would see Ian Stuart simply as part of her job with Willards and no more. Reading Stuart’s contact details from the e-mail she picked up the phone.
It seemed like old times. Across the room Anne was pressing the buttons of a familiar number, the BW office in Little Venice. She asked for the manager, Mike Brent, and was connected at once.
“Anne, good morning, what can I do for you?” Brisk but friendly.
Anne was trying to imagine him as a lover, as Barbara Taverner’s lover. “I’m phoning about Perfidia. Mr Taverner’s told us about the offer.”
“Right.”
“You know we’ve got some works to do on her: exterior painting, internal redecoration, new carpets, curtains. The thing is, will your customer wait or do you want us to bring the boat back as she is?”
“There’s no rush. The new owners are away visiting family in New Zealand, and I’ve told them she’s being refitted inside and out. Jock’s done all the mechanical side, hasn’t he?”
“Everything up to the new standards. She’ll be like a new boat when we’ve finished with her.”
He chuckled. “I don’t doubt that. Seeing the way Marnie transformed Sally Ann – that old tub – oh, sorry, no disrespect.” He laughed. “She’s a lovely old girl, but you know what I mean.”
“Lovely old girl … is that the boat you’re talking about or Marnie?”
More laughter. “Ah! I’m digging myself into a hole here.”
Anne was beginning to think of Mike Brent in a new light. She realised that she lacked the experience in the ways of the world to be able to reach a mature judgment, but here they were laughing together in friendly uncomplicated banter, and there was no doubt about it, he did have an attractive voice and a warm personality.
“Anne, are you still there?”
“Oh, yes … I, er … I was wondering about timescale. When will your client want Perfidia back in London?”
They talked over practicalities, agreed they would keep in touch in the next few weeks and liaise again about delivery. When Anne hung up, Marnie was ending her conversation on the other phone.
“Thanks. I look forward to meeting you. See you soon.”
For a few seconds after ending their calls, they looked at each other across the office.
“You go first, Anne.”
“No hurry. The clients are abroad till the end of next month.”
“Good. So we complete the work?”
Anne nodded. “Yep. Part of the deal.”
“How did you find Mike?”
“Nice. Friendly as usual. I could imagine someone liking him.”
“You mean Barbara.”
“Yes. Of course, he’s quite old – must be about forty – so I can’t judge how anyone would feel about him, but he comes across as very pleasant to talk to.”
“And he does run everything at Lit
tle Venice,” Marnie added. “To someone with a boat, that could be seen as part of his charm.”
“You mean, Barbara might have wanted to keep him sweet? She might’ve just been using him?”
“No. A woman like Barbara wouldn’t need to go that far to get what she wanted from a man, any man.”
“Then what did you mean?”
Marnie shrugged. “His position gives him a certain modest importance in the field he works in. Women like a man with authority.”
“What about Ian Stuart?”
“He acts like a man with authority, that’s for sure. I’ve arranged to go down to see him tomorrow. And that’s another thing for sure. We’re going together.”
24
Thursday morning and a subdued journey on the train to London. Marnie had none of her customary enthusiasm for the start of a new project, even one in Docklands. She read and reread the brochure about Bermuda Reach that Stuart had faxed to her and the brief sent by Jeffries from Willards. This job had too many complications, too many associations with her dead friend. And there was the small detail that the man she was going to meet was now on the list of suspects for the murder of that friend. She tried not to shudder.
As usual she did everything possible to conceal her anxiety from Anne who was sitting opposite her, nose buried in a book about the art and craft movement in Germany. And as usual …
“Marnie, you haven’t turned over a page since we passed through Tring.”
“I’m … I’m thinking. I do that from time to time, you know. It’s a sort of habit. And the amazing thing is, the more I do, the easier the job seems to get. Strange, isn’t it?”
Anne smiled like an indulgent mother. “So you’re thinking about the restaurant job?”
“Of course I’m not. I’m worrying myself simple about meeting someone who could’ve …” She fell silent. Anne had raised a finger to her lips.
“You’re raising your voice, Marnie.”
Marnie leaned forward. “You know what I mean, what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I certainly do.”
“Honestly, Anne, it’s like working with Svengali going around with you.”
Anne chuckled. “Look, we’re just going to a site meeting, like any other job. We’re getting the tube to East London, then trying out the DLR –”
“The what?”
“The Docklands Light Railway. You know it, Marnie. It’s new … ish, trains without drivers, all run by computer –”
Marnie looked aghast. “We’ll never be seen again!”
“It’ll be fun.” Anne emphasised the last word.
“I believe you.” Marnie sounded unconvinced.
“Good. The DLR will take us within a short … ish walk of our destination.”
“How short is ish?”
“Seven or eight minutes.”
“Assuming we’re not mugged or raped,” Marnie added helpfully.
Anne nodded. “Or carried off into white slavery.”
“That’s nice. I’m glad I invited you along, Anne. You cheer me up.”
“All part of the service.”
Ish turned out to be an accurate assessment by Anne. The DLR deposited them – without a driver in sight – safely in the heart of Docklands, and they walked unmolested through streets undergoing wholesale redevelopment. Marnie was looking at her watch to check their timing when she felt a tug at her sleeve. When she looked up, Anne pointed ahead. There it was, an imposing sign announcing Bermuda Reach, with the coat of arms of the colony on one side and the logo of Stuart Developments on the other.
It was typical of Docklands and not unlike Templars’ Wharf, but on a smaller scale. Even so, it was a development worth millions. Here and there workmen were busy, and vans were dotted round the site. To Marnie’s eye it looked as if the finishing trades were predominating. She imagined that in six months everything would be clear and all the works completed. Willards would be urged to have the restaurant finished in that time, which would put more pressure on Walker & Co.
As Marnie and Anne aimed in the direction of the office, clearly marked with a blue and white board, breaking sunlight danced on water in the marina where a few boats were already occupying their berths. There was not a narrowboat in sight, but high-quality American Grand Banks and British Nelson boats were much in evidence.
Bermuda Reach was in the customary Docklands shape of an oblong surrounding the marina basin, with one of the shorter sides partly open to give access to the Thames. On one side stood a warehouse that had been converted to offices. Two sides were residential blocks divided into flats and loft conversions, with an extension of modern houses in a terrace on the short end by the marina entrance. It all blended seamlessly into the riparian landscape. Marnie felt envy of the architects and designers who had brought the place to life, but excited at her part in completing the picture.
The door to the office stood open, and Marnie looked inside. She smiled as she reflected that these prestige developments in Docklands were unlike normal building sites. The furniture looked like Conran originals, and seated at a chrome and glass desk was a strikingly pretty young woman in a black silk shirt and cream trousers, speaking persuasively on the phone. Marnie withdrew a business card from her wallet and placed it on the desk beside a nameplate inscribed, Amanda Gilbert-Reeves.
Without interrupting her call, the young woman gestured towards the front door and mouthed, “Press the bell’ before pointing upwards. Marnie rejoined Anne who had waited outside admiring the view. Her attention had been captured by a low-slung silver Aston Martin two-seater, its hood down, revealing impressive quantities of dark red leather. Parked against the backdrop of bijoux residences and white cruisers, it looked like part of a fashion shoot.
Marnie found the doorbell and pressed it as instructed by Miss Gilbert-Reeves. The intercom clicked.
“Marnie Walker for Ian Stuart.”
A metallic voice replied, “Come on up,” and a buzzer sounded.
They stopped at a spacious first floor landing smelling of fresh paint and sawn timber. Daylight flooded down on them from glazed panels in the roof. Somewhere nearby a man’s voice could be heard, speaking on the phone. After a few seconds he said good-bye, the phone was put down and almost immediately a door opened. Ian Stuart was exactly as Marnie had imagined him, only more so.
She had barely two seconds to form an impression of the man who was master of everything around them, and whose mistress had been Barbara Taverner. Tall, with blond wavy hair and a square jawline, he seemed younger than she expected. This may have been the effect of his suntan, which probably proclaimed a recent trip to the Caribbean. His clothes proclaimed City businessman, from the blue and white striped shirt, the red braces attached to dark blue pinstripe trousers and shiny black Chelsea boots.
He bounded forward, hand outstretched, pronouncing his name. His expression was earnest and pre-occupied, but relaxing into a smile. As Marnie introduced herself, Stuart became aware of Anne, and the smile receded.
Marnie was turning towards her friend when Anne extended her right hand and spoke in a firm clear voice. “Anne Price. Designer. Marnie’s colleague on this project.”
Faltering for a second, the smile clicked on. “Oh … right. Hi. Ian Stuart.”
His large square hand enveloped her thin fingers, and Anne’s face remained inscrutable. If she felt any discomfort from the encounter she did not show it.
Stuart’s office was untidy, with folders and bundles of papers and plans piled on the desk, on the filing cabinets and on every visible – or rather invisible – surface. In one corner a coffee machine was set up on a table, with plastic cups in a dispenser and sachets of sugar in a basket. On the floor below it lay a sports bag. Ian Stuart with his broad shoulders and deep chest was a fitness freak. Marnie was amused to see a mirror hanging on the wall beside the machine.
“Shall we have coffee?” Stuart asked smoothly.
Marnie and Anne thanked him and immediately sat down. Th
eir eyes met briefly while Stuart tugged at cups and pressed buttons in the corner behind them, muttering instructions to himself as he did so.
Surprise. The coffee tasted like coffee. While they sipped it, Stuart gave them a tour of the site, his finger guiding them across a plan spread out over the papers on the desk. Speaking in short staccato phrases, he radiated energy and enthusiasm for his work.
Marnie found her concentration lapsing. Uncharacteristically she was watching Stuart instead of studying every detail of his exposition. Even more uncharacteristically, she found herself wondering what kind of lover he would be. The words, swept me off my feet came into her mind. She tried to imagine Barbara held in those powerful hands, her slim body gathered up in those strong arms. Perhaps Barbara liked having that kind of treatment. Perhaps she liked having it in all ways. Marnie heard Barbara’s voice: Variety is the spice of life …
“Marnie, shall I take your coffee while you dig it out?”
Anne was talking to her. Marnie had not been paying attention. Time to flannel.
“I was just wondering …” She passed her cup to Anne, hoping for more help. Stuart was looking at her expectantly.
Anne again. “I think you put our draft timetable in the blue folder.”
Draft timetable, great. “No, Anne, it’s in the red one. Blue is for the briefing papers.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Anne turned towards Stuart. “Sorry, you were asking about our best completion date.”
Marnie consulted a document encased in a transparent folder. It looked impressively efficient. “I’d normally expect anything up to about six months from brief to handover on a job of this size.”
“Not unreasonable,” Stuart murmured. “but we were rather hoping …”
“Could get it down to four … if … we get rapid decisions when we put forward our scheme design and depending on availability, of course.”
“Good … good …”
Marnie took a last sip of coffee and stood up. “Right. Shall we do the Grand Tour?”
While they inspected the building, Marnie bombarded Stuart with questions and was impressed with his command of every aspect of the development. While she made copious notes, Anne photographed the restaurant, the bar and its terrace from every angle.