by Leo McNeir
“I realised that.”
“I wanted to know what a woman might see in Gerard, whether you’d have insights into how Barbara might be attracted to him.” He shook his head despairingly. “I wondered how I’d feel if I came across a letter from either of them, or a note of some kind. I never imagined for one moment that Barbara might have made tapes like that.”
“Did she ever do anything like it before?”
“Never, to my knowledge. But what do I know about her any more? What did I ever know?”
“You have all your other memories.” It sounded pathetic, but Marnie was desperate to comfort him.
“I suppose so. I don’t know when I began to realise that I had to know who’d killed Barbara. It had to be utterly certain. And I realised that I did have doubts about Gerard. So did you, didn’t you?”
“Not until you put doubts in my mind.”
“But you had an open mind, Marnie, and I knew I could trust you. It seems Gerard shared my opinion. He felt he could rely on you to be discreet and impartial.”
“I can’t think why you both elevate me to this position, like some kind of oracle.”
Charles acted as if he had not heard her reply. “I just want the truth. Ultimately that’s all I’ll be left with. At my age you start to ponder what it’s all about.”
“Not just at your age, Charles. Anyway, it’s not as if you’re old. You’re barely sixty.”
“But what do I have to look forward to? There isn’t a morning when I don’t wake up aware of the cold empty space in the bed beside me, a space that no-one else will ever fill, could ever fill. All that part of my life has gone forever.”
“It’s too soon to be saying that.” She saw him wallowing in self-pity and she wanted to pull him out of it. “Your life will move on, once this is all behind you.”
“Marnie, I know I’m walking steadily towards a lonely old age. It’s like sleep walking into a swamp, only it’s a swamp out of which there’s no returning. That’s what it means to grow old, like an illness without a cure. The only way to cope is to have someone to share your life with.”
“I can understand you feeling –”
“Now, the only way I can cope is to know for certain that the person who robbed me of Barbara is found and put away for the whole of their life. It isn’t easy to accept that Gerard might be innocent, not after hating him so much for all these months. But I can only hate him if I know he’s guilty.”
“You don’t hate him for having had an affair with Barbara?”
“It’s hard to stomach, of course. But surprisingly I think I could cope with that. I knew she would always come back to me. Having heard the tapes could you believe that, Marnie?”
“I’m sure she would.”
“You really mean that?”
“Yes.” She answered a little too quickly and hoped she had not betrayed her feeling that Neil had become ever more important to Barbara.
When Charles showed Marnie to the door he hesitated before opening it.
“This has been a painful conversation, Marnie. You will let me know if you come across anything important?”
“Of course I will.”
“I’m glad you were so frank with me. What made you change your mind?”
“I expected they’d come out sooner or later, anyway. I wanted you to be forewarned.”
The effect of Roselawn had worn off by the time Marnie arrived back at Glebe Farm and it showed. Anne was in the office, working at her desk.
“Tough workout, Marnie? You look all in.”
Anne’s voice was tense, but Marnie felt too shredded to notice.
“No, the health club was fine. I’ve just been to see Charles. I … told him about the tapes.”
“The tapes,” Anne repeated in a flat voice.
“He kind of pushed me into a corner and I ended up talking about them.”
“Do you feel like a drink?”
“Just had a G and T.”
“And you were driving?” Anne sounded surprised.
“The gin tiptoed through the glass on stilts.” Marnie noticed Anne’s expression and found it difficult to read. “Anne, I only had to drive down the field track. You know I don’t –”
“It’s not that, Marnie. I’ve got a confession to make, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I … I listened to a tape, a Barbara tape … accidentally.”
Marnie looked stunned.
“Accidentally? How?”
Anne took a deep breath. “It was in the box under my bed.”
“But those were just ordinary music tapes.”
“I know, that’s what we thought.”
“Didn’t it have a label?”
“On the box it just said Sibelius. It had a Decca label or CBS, something like that.”
“On the tape itself?”
“No. It was dim. I didn’t see any writing on the cassette, just stuck it in the player.”
“So you heard Barbara talking to Neil, her pillow talk?”
Anne shook her head. “No.”
“Then how did you know it was her?”
“There wasn’t much talking of any kind, but it was her all right, or rather them.”
Marnie frowned. “You mean, they were …?”
“Yes.”
Marnie looked incredulous. “She actually recorded them … together?”
“Uh-huh.”
“My God …”
44
Marnie opened one eye in bed on Saturday morning after Ralph had crept out for his customary walk. She did not feel like greeting the day. It had been an uncomfortable night, her back throbbing, dreaming she was sticking pins into a witch’s doll – a trim little masseuse doll with curly hair. She yawned and heard a voice in her head, You won’t thank me tomorrow, Marnie, but by Sunday morning you’ll be blessing my name. Marnie squirmed, trying to make herself comfortable. Well, you were right about the first part, lady, she thought. How to survive Saturday, that was the question.
When Ralph returned from his walk he brought Marnie a breakfast tray. She groaned and resigned herself to another day in bed, or a morning at least.
“Can I sit with you while you have breakfast?”
“Of course, Ralph. But you don’t have to keep me company. I know you have work to do.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“I’m in demand these days. Didn’t you see the queue?”
“I want to talk about the note you received on Thursday and didn’t mention to me.”
“Ah, Anne told you?”
“Who else? I’m sure you would’ve got round to speaking about it some time.”
“I’d almost forgotten about it.”
“What are your thoughts?”
“I think you’re about to tell me yours. Am I right?”
“You go first.”
“I suppose the key question is, which of the suspects knows where I live?”
“And the answer?”
“Ian Stuart certainly does. I gave him my business card. Clive Adamson must know it too. His office sent me the invitation by post.”
“What about Mike Brent?”
“I don’t think so, but he could easily get it if he wanted to. He knows we live up here somewhere by the Grand Union.”
“Wainwright?”
“No. I doubt he even knows I exist.”
Ralph looked thoughtful. “I think your assessment is right.”
“And what do you think yourself?”
“To tell the truth, Marnie, I don’t think there’s much we can do. No doubt we should probably inform the police.”
“I’d rather not involve Inspector Bartlett in any of my business, if it could be avoided. He’s hardly going to post guards down here to protect me, is he? It would only convince him that I’m concealing information and bring me more hassle.”
Ralph agreed. He cleared away the remains of breakfast and helped Marnie to her feet. Feeling moderately refreshed after vis
iting the bathroom, with face washed and hair brushed, she let him ease her back into bed.
Two boxes were tucked under the bed, one containing Barbara’s “love letter’ tapes, the other the apparent music cassettes. Anne had brought the latter from her attic to Sally Ann before supper the previous evening, having no desire to have them under her roof for a minute longer. At Marnie’s request Ralph pulled out the two boxes, set them on the duvet beside her with Anne’s Walkman and left her to it.
Marnie examined every one of the tapes they had assumed were music. Checking every case against the labelling on the cassette inside, Marnie found that they all matched. Only one was not what it seemed. It had been perfect camouflage, perfect except that Anne had stumbled upon it by accident, fumbling in the semi-darkness of her attic room.
Perhaps it was the continuing discomfort of her aching back, or the weariness following a night without rest, but Marnie could not face listening to another of Barbara’s intimate monologues. She remembered a friend telling her that after his mother died he had rushed home from the hospital to listen to her voice on the answerphone. She had left a simple message just before entering hospital for the last time, and it had become a precious though tenuous link, a few final words before dying. Hearing Barbara’s voice was almost as if she was brought back to life, but Marnie found it hard to listen to words that were never meant for her ears. In that moment she arrived at a decision.
Seeking solace in music, she slotted a Mendelssohn cassette into the Walkman and lay back, soon to be lulled to sleep by the Hebridean Overture, the sounds of the sea lapping around Fingal’s Cave.
On Sunday morning Marnie woke after a restful night. She turned over without stiffness or pain, muttered a silent thanks, Curly and placed her face close to Ralph on the pillow.
“Are you awake?” she whispered.
“Mm.” Ralph put an arm round her and began to pull her closer until he remembered the back. “Sorry.”
“I’ve come to a decision, Ralph.”
He still had his eyes closed. “Nunnery?”
“Apart from that.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m not going to listen to any more of Barbara’s tapes, ever again, and certainly not the one that Anne discovered.”
“Good decision.”
“You really think so?”
“Mm. Shame about the nunnery.”
Returning from the bathroom, Marnie realised that her back was free of pain. In the entrance to the sleeping cabin she bent down slowly and touched her toes. Another murmured thank-you to the curly girl.
Ralph observed the performance with both eyes open. “Is this the sign of another decision being taken? No nunnery after all?”
Marnie gave him the heavy eyelids treatment. “Actually, I have reached another decision. I’m going to visit Neil this afternoon, tell him I’m packing the tapes up to await his release from prison. Anne can stow them away in her attic.”
Ralph was up on one elbow. Marnie joined him in a chorus of, “Is that wise?”
“Seriously, Marnie you might be seen.”
“I’ll just go in with all the other friends and relatives. No-one will know who I am or which inmate I’m visiting. There’s no risk at all.”
All the Sunday papers were running the story of Charles Taverner coming to the defence of Neil Gerard. They were now universally known as The Odd Couple. Combined with the title, the Little Venice Murder, it was a gift to editors.
Anne picked up an armful of papers at the village shop and transported them back to Glebe Farm in the Mini. It was a cool overcast morning, and they sat at the breakfast table reading the different accounts of the story. There was little variation. Charles was quoted with reasonable accuracy, mainly because he had issued a detailed written statement and sent it to all the news desks by e-mail. Most comment centred on the uniqueness of the situation. It was the first time in British legal history that the husband of a murder victim was leading the call for a retrial of his wife’s alleged killer.
All the now familiar arguments were set out, and several articles observed that Charles was apparently basing much of his judgment on his own personal assessment of Gerard’s character. He actually seemed to believe that the man who had been having an affair with his wife was essentially a good person. Apart from some speculation that Charles might be some kind of born again Christian – along the lines of, love thine enemy – the reports treated this aspect with total bewilderment. It made his claim of innocence all the more plausible.
Another strange aspect of the reporting was that no blame seemed to be attached to the police for their handling of the case. The Metropolitan Police issued no comment but it was noted that there were no calls for public enquiries, no suggestions of police incompetence. All the papers paraphrased Neil Gerard: everything was done by the book … they just got the wrong man.
Where the reports differed was in their treatment of the story. Some took the opportunity to rehash all the background with a full account of the murder and the trial and numerous photographs of all the participants. It was in one of the tabloids that a whole page was devoted to The Key Questions under the heading, If Neil Gerard did not commit this murder, then who did? On the opposite page a link to the questions was made with photographs, each one bearing a question as its caption. In a line-up at the bottom of the page there were four photos under the heading, What part do these women play? There was the witness from the neighbouring boat in Little Venice alongside Sarah Cowan, both obvious choices. The surprises were the two other pictures. Third in the row was Ellen, full name Ellen Samuels, described as Charles’s former secretary – my old secretary … out of retirement. This was no doddering old biddy. She was a handsome woman with fine bone structure and an intelligent confident expression.
Marnie was horrified but on reflection not really surprised to see her own picture staring out in fourth place. Her caption was short and to the point. Who is this mystery woman?
Neil greeted Marnie in the visitors’ room as if he was now expecting her to bring good news but not taking anything for granted.
“Good to see you, Marnie, and thanks for everything you’ve done, you and Charles, of course.”
Marnie felt a slight shock to hear Neil refer to Charles by his first name. Charles always called him Gerard. Surnames seemed more appropriate.
“I haven’t really done anything, certainly nothing that’s brought results.”
“You’ve given me hope.”
This was awkward, and Neil’s change of expression told Marnie he knew something unwelcome was coming.
“Is anything wrong, Marnie?”
“It’s just that I’ve been going through the tapes. They’re not telling me anything that could ever be used as evidence.”
“I see. They don’t give you any ideas about what might’ve happened?”
Marnie shook her head. “How could they? Sure, she mentions her lovers, but not in a way that I could use to prove anything. In any case, you wouldn’t want them to be played in a court of law if you get a retrial.”
“No.” He pondered for some seconds. “So you’re not going to do anything further with the tapes.”
“That’s right.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“You’re very –”
“Perceptive, sensitive? That’s what Barbara used to tell me.”
“I know. I feel like I was there.”
“What is it, Marnie? Don’t tell me that after all that’s happened you’ve come to bring bad news.”
“We found another tape, not labelled like the rest.”
Neil looked puzzled. Then his expression hardened. “You’ve found, you listened to … my God.”
“Why are you surprised? It was in the box with all the others.”
“Well, you heard it, Marnie. It must be obvious why I’m surprised.”
“I haven’t heard it, actually.”
Neil was stunned. “Jesus! Not … Char
les?”
“No, not Charles. I have an assistant, a friend who works with me. She’s just eighteen. She came across it by accident.”
Alarm. He blurted out, all in a rush. “Is she trustworthy? That tape’s dynamite. If one of the tabloids –”
“Neil, your secret is quite safe. But you really shouldn’t have let us come upon it without warning.”
“She said she was going to destroy it, Marnie. There was only one like that. She asked for it back, said it was just an experiment. I didn’t know she’d recorded it at the time, and I certainly didn’t know she still had it.”
“Can you think why she kept it?”
“No. Hell, no. I’m amazed. She made so much fuss about it when we listened to it together, said she realised it wasn’t a good idea. It was one of the earlier tapes she had brought with her to liven things up.”
“Liven things up?” Marnie regretted saying it as soon as she had spoken.
“Yes. It did, but you can only do that sort of thing once.”
“What did you think of it? I mean, did it strike you as out of character?”
“I didn’t like it as much as the others.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Neil’s eyes wandered across the room, focused on some distant place. “There was a song she liked – we both liked: What a lady, what a night. You know it?” Marnie nodded. “That was one of my favourites. Whenever I heard it, I thought of her. That’s what she was like, that’s what it was like to know her, to be with her.”
“I know all this, Neil. But the time has come for me to pack up the tapes. I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t think they’ll do anything to help your case. It’s moved onto a different plane. Charles is leading the campaign now. He’ll do it with lawyers, letters to influential people, MPs, ministers, judges. No-one will be able to ignore him.”
“You’re walking away?”
“It’s out of my hands now. It’s not as if I’m going to stumble on some clue that’s going to solve the case. That kind of thing only happens on television.”