by Leo McNeir
“Yep. All the other enquirers have withdrawn as soon as I tell them the name or they see the boat. Not surprising, really.”
The morning still felt like a normal day when Marnie climbed into the Discovery and set off for a site meeting at a pub near Whilton Marina, the scene of a refurbishment project for Willards. On the journey she mulled over the question of the name of the boat. Perfidia was a fine craft, but would she herself buy it with that name, with that association? She would certainly understand the reluctance of potential buyers to invest a substantial sum in a vessel however attractive, tainted with an aura like the Mary Celeste, with the albatross of the Ancient Mariner hovering over it.
The meeting was purely routine – Marnie had carried out so many of these projects that she could do them in her sleep – and on the way home she took the decision to ring Jane Rutherford in London. Jane was a professional artist who lived on a houseboat in Little Venice. Well known for her watercolours, she was even more famous as a sign writer and teacher of sign writing.
“Jane, hi, it’s Marnie. Are you well?”
“Great. You?”
“Not bad. Can I talk to you wearing your sign writer’s hat?”
“Go ahead.”
“Nothing definite, but how would you be fixed if I needed a sign done?”
“Mm, pretty booked up, but that’s normal. You want to spruce up old Sally?”
“It’s a client’s boat. We’re taking her out of the water for the next few weeks.”
“Bull’s Bridge?”
“Not actually. Up here at Blisworth.”
“I see. Er, would I know this boat by any chance?”
“Everybody knows this boat. That’s the problem.”
A pause. “Perfidia?”
“You guessed.”
“I take it, this would be a change of name?”
“If I can persuade Charles Taverner it would be a good idea. I don’t know if you’d fancy a few days in the country, but you could stay with us while you did it.”
“Get back to me when you know for sure and I’ll see what I can do. Tell me, Marnie, have you spoken to Mike Brent about this?”
“Mike raised it with me.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“You’ve heard he’s only had one offer for the sale?”
“I didn’t know that. No, it’s just that, well, he took Barbara’s death quite badly. Did you know he’d been down with flu around that time? Had a really bad dose, off work for about two weeks. Came back when all the fuss was going on and they arrested that man.”
“Neil Gerard.”
“Yes. The Barbara thing really got him down. He was so depressed.”
“Were they particularly friendly?”
“She was pretty popular, especially with the men, of course. But generally, too. I liked her, a real character, down to earth, no nonsense, for all the glamorous image they went on about in the papers.”
“And Mike?”
“I think he had those post-flu blues. You know how low you get after influenza. He couldn’t seem to shake them off. When I saw him he was very glum, almost …”
“What?”
“I was going to say it was almost as if he was heartbroken, but that wouldn’t be quite right. That’d be too personal. But he was really upset.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Perfidia around, always reminding him of what had happened. Was it his idea to change the name?”
“Yes. He rang this morning and suggested it.”
“Let me know when you’ve got a decision, Marnie. I’ll see what I can do. A few days in the peace and quiet of the country would be very welcome.”
They certainly would, Marnie thought as they ended the call.
Back in the office Marnie was welcomed by the inevitable line-up of yellow post-it notes stuck round the edge of her monitor. Nothing exciting, no shocks or surprises. She scanned them quickly while Anne made tea for the builders and took the tray out to the farmhouse site. Marnie organised the messages in priority order, dialled Everett Parker Associates first and was put through to Philip Everett without delay.
“Hi, Philip. You’re wanting a progress report on the Bermuda Reach project, presumably?”
“No. Listen, Marnie. Ian Stuart rang this morning while I was out, wants me to phone him back. Apparently he wants to know if we have problems with the project.”
“Why should we?”
“You tell me. He wants to know if the fact that you went back to look around … on a Sunday morning … means we’re having some sort of difficulties. Were you there on Sunday?”
“Yes.”
A pause. “And?”
“Er …”
“This isn’t about work, is it?”
“No.”
“So what is there at Bermuda Reach that makes you go all monosyllabic on me?”
“It’s … it’s a bit tricky to explain.”
“Marnie, I’m going to need more than that if I’m to sound convincing when I speak to Ian Stuart, our client, remember?”
“Yeah. Phil …”
“Whenever you call me Phil, I know there’s going to be one of those We’ve known each other ten years conversations in which I’m supposed to trust you. Am I right?”
“It really is a difficult situation.”
“But not connected with the restaurant project.”
“No.”
“Good. So that’s that out of the way. What else is there? Ah … Has this got something to do with … you know.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Charles Taverner has a penthouse there. I needed to look in and get something, while he was absent.”
“But you must’ve told a different story.” Philip waited, listening to air. “Help me, Marnie, I’m struggling here.”
“I have known you ten years, Phil. I can’t lie to you. I was looking for some of Barbara’s things. Listen, it’s possible Neil Gerard may be innocent.”
“Wow! And you didn’t want Charles Taverner to know about it until you had whatever it was you went to get?”
“Exactly. I found what I was looking for. It implicates other people.”
“Can you tell me who they are?”
A pause. “Ian Stuart is one of them.”
“Bloody hell! Who else?”
“Phil I –”
“Marnie, I don’t want to put my foot in it. Also, I need to know if any of our other clients are likely to be carted off to the nick without paying us.”
“You know Piers Wainwright?”
“You’re kidding!”
“Ever heard of Clive Adamson?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Then there’s Mike Brent. He’s the manager of Little Venice.”
“Don’t know him.”
“That’s the lot.”
“And one of them could be …”
“Not necessarily, but they may be implicated in some way.”
“So I have to cover for you being at Bermuda Reach on Sunday.”
“Yes. It’s important Ian Stuart doesn’t get suspicious.”
“Mm … right. Checking dimensions wouldn’t sound terribly convincing. What did you tell him you were doing?”
“He wasn’t there. I told the security guard I was checking details, I think.”
“Details … okay. Suppose I said I was thinking of hanging sail material as a lining for the interior ceilings and wanted to continue that outside to create awnings over the terrace that looked like sails?”
“Sounds like a good idea. Are you thinking along those lines?”
“As of now, yes.”
“Are the ceilings high enough to accommodate that?”
“That’s what you were checking.”
“Great, Phil.”
“With one small reservation. I only have floor plans of that part of the building, no elevations or sections yet. It’ll look odd if I s
end someone round to measure up after you’ve already been to do it.”
“Yeah … Wait a minute. Anne took her usual load of Polaroids. We can probably get the scale from them. It’ll be close enough for now. I’ll get her to post them to you.”
“Marnie, you have a devious mind.”
“Makes two of us. Thanks, Phil … Philip.”
Before tackling the more routine calls, Marnie dialled one number that was longer than the others. While she was waiting, Anne returned with the empty tray and went back to her desk.
“Where are you, Charles?” Marnie muttered to herself. She was listening to the intermittent single buzzing note, the France Télécom ringing tone. It was her third attempt at getting through.
“Still no reply?” Anne asked, looking up from her pad.
Marnie put the phone down. “I expect he’s out having lunch somewhere.”
“I’ve been thinking. I’m sure it’s a good idea, changing the boat’s name.” Anne made one stroke on the paper in front of her, put down the pencil and sat back. “But wouldn’t it be better to wait till we’ve got her back in London? Jane could paint the new name down there.”
“I think it’s an old tradition on the canals. You change a boat’s name when it’s out of the water.”
“Why’s that?”
Marnie shrugged. “Dunno. I suppose it’s like relaunching her with a new name, a new identity for a new owner. Or maybe it’s just a superstition. You can never tell with waterways and boats, these old customs.”
“D’you think Mr Taverner will go for it?”
“Possibly. I think he’s probably past caring, just wants the boat out of his life.”
Anne looked down at her work. “Marnie, I’ve finished the outline for the stencil for the conservatory. Do you think he’ll still be interested?”
Marnie stood up and walked across the room. She looked down over Anne’s shoulder. “Hey, that’s really good. How many of these designs have you done now?”
“Seven or eight. It’s taken me a while to get it right. What do you think?”
“They’ve all been good. Any one of them would be fine.”
“I like this one best. I think it’s got the right balance between the grapes and the size of the leaves. Perhaps I’d better wait till Mr Taverner’s approved it before I cut the stencil.”
“Just do it. Go ahead. He’ll accept.”
“Great. I’ll make a copy of the design, just in case I make a mess while I’m cutting it out. Would it disturb you if I did it here this afternoon?”
“Course not.” Marnie wandered over to the window and looked out. “In fact, you’d be doing me a favour. It’d be helpful to have someone here in the office to handle any phone calls.”
“Okay. I was going to pop round to see Ronny some time today. I can do that later on.”
“Sure?”
“No probs. What’s this, another meeting? I haven’t got it in the office diary.”
“That’s because I’ve only just thought about it.”
“Ah … No prizes for guessing, then.”
Marnie was one of the first to be led into the visiting room, and Neil Gerard showed no surprise at seeing her. They shook hands, both recognising that the atmosphere between them had changed. Neil waited for Marnie to be seated before taking his chair.
He smiled ruefully. “Couldn’t keep away?”
“How are you finding it in here? Is it better than the other … place?”
“A holiday camp.” He lowered his voice. “Actually, it’s quite interesting, Marnie. Would you like to guess which prison has just about the worst record for inmate suicides in England?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Check it out. Home Office statistics will confirm it, if you don’t believe me.”
Marnie stared at him across the table, incredulous. “But I thought …”
“I think there’s something you need to understand, Marnie. A life sentence is the replacement for the death penalty. Many people argued that hanging was more merciful than spending the rest of your life in prison. They had a point. It’s a lifetime in hell.”
Marnie shuddered. “But you are going to stick it out, aren’t you, whatever happens?”
“Tell me why you’ve come, Marnie. Although I suppose I know. You’ve listened to the tapes.”
“The first one.”
“I think you need to hear them all. Did …” He made a gesture in the air. “Your, er, partner hear it?”
“Ralph.”
“Ralph. Yes, sorry.”
“He didn’t want to listen to them at all, thought they were too private.”
“Fair enough.”
“But I persuaded him to listen to it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I needed another perspective. He’s got very sound judgment.”
“So have you, Marnie. You decide what you think’s best.”
“The police know I went to your flat.”
He nodded. “Sarah told me. She also said you wouldn’t tell her why you were there.”
“I’m treating this whole matter as client confidentiality. I’m afraid Sarah didn’t like that.”
“I told her you went to get some tapes. She concluded that they were stolen. I saw no reason to disabuse her of that idea.”
“As your sister, she must’ve thought you didn’t trust her.”
“I couldn’t let Sarah listen to them. It just seemed … Look, I’m not prudish, it’s not that, not just that. But somehow they’re too private for someone so close to me to hear, someone who really matters to me.”
“Thank you.”
“Sorry, Marnie, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. What I meant is, you could listen to them in an objective way, a neutral way like, er, Ralph. If anything comes of all this, that will be the time for Sarah – and no doubt the whole country – to hear them. If nothing comes of it, then you and Ralph will walk out of my life and that’s an end to it.”
“I understand that.”
“So what about the police? What did you tell them?”
“That I was trying to find some love letters from Barbara.”
“Love letters …” He smiled. “That’s not far from the truth. So they don’t know about the tapes?”
“No. We can decide what to do when I’ve gone through them all, provided I’m not thrown in gaol for concealing evidence. Neil, do you think there are, I hate to use this silly word, clues in the tapes about who might’ve killed her?”
“It’s hard to remember. She did speak about those other men. I hope you don’t find this all too distasteful. I just hoped you’d be able to form an opinion about our relationship and see if anything Barbara said might suggest a possible line of enquiry.”
“There’s something bothering me. I wonder why you didn’t consider using them in your defence to show what your relationship was like. If this examination had happened at the time of your trial, perhaps things would’ve turned out differently.”
“It’s naive, I know, but because I’m innocent I never thought I’d be found guilty. The evidence struck me as too flimsy.”
“You couldn’t produce an alibi, Neil, even from your own sister.”
“All the same, I never for a moment considered using the tapes like that.”
“But you would now.”
“This is a last resort, Marnie. I haven’t got anything else. On the one hand, those tapes are all I have remaining of Barbara. It would feel like a betrayal to go public with them. On the other hand, the real murderer is out there. I know it’s corny, but I don’t think Barbara will ever be at rest until that person is found. Nor will I, of course.”
Marnie stared at him. A strange feeling was coming over her. She had tried to resist it all along, but now she realised she had started seriously to believe Neil’s story. Perhaps it was the effect of listening to the tape. Perhaps that was his plan, to draw her in despite herself. But she knew that her doubts were slipping away.
“I’m going to do al
l I can to help you.”
Neil stared back. He blinked a few times. “I don’t want anyone else to hear the tapes, Marnie.”
“But they might provide evidence of something. Isn’t that what you’re hoping?”
“I just hope they might in some way give an insight, a hint, an idea, anything that might lead to Barbara’s killer.”
“If they do, they’ll have to be turned over to the police. If they’re used in evidence they’ll become public.”
“Even so, I don’t want our relationship to be turned into nothing more than a soap opera. Britain has become a voyeuristic society. I don’t want Barbara to become part of that. It would be the final betrayal.”
At supper Ralph mentioned that a colleague had e-mailed some material that was relevant to the weekend symposium, and he wanted to incorporate it into the paper he was presenting on Saturday morning. If no-one had any other plans he would like to deal with it that evening. Anne chimed in that she would be keen to make a start on her next summer project, a study of the life and work of the architect, Le Corbusier. Marnie was happy to comply. She could hear the call of the unheard tapes stowed under the bed and wanted to continue Barbara’s story.
Marnie set up the cassette player in the saloon on Sally Ann after the others had gone, wondering if they had deliberately given her this opportunity. She pressed the play button and made herself comfortable. Moments later she heard the quiet almost husky voice and drifted back through time and space to probe into Barbara’s private life.
32
The second tape
Don’t be alone
Come and sit here beside me
Better still come and lie with me here
[There was a long pause]
Intimate – that’s a good word
You said it was one of your favourites
Said it was the word you always thought of when you thought of me
Say it softly
It’s the only way to say it, really
Breathe out and say it
Intimate
Hold onto that word for a few moments
Think about it
You can almost touch it, almost smell it
[A long sigh]
I could never speak like this with Charles