No Secrets (MARNIE WALKER Book 6)

by Leo McNeir

  At that moment, Charles was on the phone again in his study at Knightly St John. Guy Taplow was reporting back, and Charles was listening with great concentration. Every now and then he muttered, good … good …

  “So … all okay thus far. Thank you, Guy. You’ve acted above and beyond the call of duty. Now, what about the media?”

  “That’s something I can’t fix. They’re swarming all over the prison entrance. On the news there were reports that some were camping on the pavement outside Gerard’s flat. At least his sister has made tracks.”

  “Good. Any mention of me?”

  “Only that you’re not available for comment. There’s a small posse at Templars’ Wharf and another at Bermuda Reach. Nothing in Sussex, as far as I know. When are you planning to get away, Charles?”

  “Soon.” He looked down at his notes. The media were everywhere. Sooner or later … “Look, Guy … I wonder if you should make a statement that I’ve already left the country. What do you think?”

  “It might gain you some space.”

  “Then do it.”

  When he disconnected, Charles sat pondering. He could not bear to be put through the wringer again. This was a time for quick thinking and action. He checked the notepad and dialled an unfamiliar number. It rang several times before a breathless voice answered.

  Neil was savouring every moment of freedom. The world seemed unreal. An hour ago he had been sitting in a cell while others determined his future. Now, here he was, taking control of a boat, taking back control of his life. He breathed in deeply, looking out over fields and distant woodland. A phrase came into his head… the grand horizons. His world had horizons again, time that he could plan, action that was entirely down to him. Never again would he allow himself to be ruled by other people’s timetables and pressures. The steps he took at this moment would set the course for the rest of his days.

  The boat was now approaching an area of housing, and a bridge showed up ahead. Neil searched it with the binoculars, but there was no-one in sight. He settled back to thinking about his future. What would he do next? Obviously he should get away for a month, two months, possibly longer. Sarah would help with organising his finances. Everywhere in the world accepted credit cards. Plastic had taken the place of paper money. He had savings, enough to survive on if he chose an inexpensive place. Somewhere with sunshine, somewhere with space, the sea …

  He would write the first draft of his account: The Little Venice Murder – my story, by Neil Gerard. Ian Fleming used to write the James Bond novels in two months at his retreat in Jamaica. There should be no difficulty in writing about his life with Barbara, culminating in what really happened to her that awful night. He could use the media for his own purposes if he could bide his time. It would still be newsworthy in a few months.

  He would give interviews when he got back, do a deal, maybe find an agent to handle the PR angle. There would be television appearances, exclusives in the papers. But only when he was ready and his head clear. He would not have to race to meet their deadlines, their needs. He would never do that again.

  Neil could not wait to get away. He was dreaming of somewhere with grand horizons, rounding a bend, when he heard ringing. He had forgotten about the mobile and groped at it, trying to divide his attention to what lay round the corner. He fumbled and hit the phone with his fingertips, knocking it from the roof. Grabbing wildly, he trapped it mid-fall against the open door, lost his balance and only just avoided falling over the side. breathless and panting, he turned the phone over and pressed the green button.

  “Yes?”

  Straightening the tiller, he heard Charles Taverner announce himself. As he listened, he could not know that the call that he had almost thrown away would change the course of his life forever.

  “Listen,” Charles was saying. “Be very careful not to let yourself be seen. The media are scouring the country looking for you. I may have under-estimated their thoroughness.”

  “But surely they couldn’t make any connection between me and this boat?”

  “Don’t assume anything. You must be vigilant.”

  Neil felt a moment of panic. “It wasn’t hired in my name, was it?”

  “No, my solicitor’s arranged everything on my instructions. You know about wearing a hat at all times, using binoculars if you spot anyone loitering suspiciously?”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that.”

  “I think you would be wise to pull over now, somewhere remote if you can find it, and not travel again until dusk. Go through locks early in the morning. It’s only for a few days before you can take off.”

  “If the worst comes to the worst, Charles, I could face the media now that I’m vindicated. I don’t want to, but I know what I have to do, I’ve got it worked out.”

  “It may come to that, but if at all possible I want to avoid it for now. Frankly, I couldn’t bear the publicity thing all over again. I imagine you’ll want to write your story when you’re away. No doubt it’ll earn you a fortune when you get back. You can sell it to a publisher then, and I can arrange to be on the other side of the world. Do this for me, please.”

  “Sure. You’re a mind reader. To be honest, I’m not really up to going over everything myself. I need time to get my head together and get used to being free again.”

  “I know … and I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  “Thank you, Charles. You’ve already done a lot. I don’t know how I’ll ever –‘

  “Don’t say a word. It’s the least I can do after what you’ve been through.”

  Marnie presented herself at the door and rang the bell. She had walked up to the village by herself, glad to have a breath of air on a pleasant spring evening. Charles let her in, noticing the blue folder under her arm, and showed her into the conservatory. He had opened a bottle of chilled Chablis, and they sat looking out at the garden.

  “Do you do landscape design, Marnie?” He replaced the bottle in its ice-bucket.

  “I’m not really qualified in that field.”

  “I can’t imagine you’d do anything other than brilliantly well. Cheers.”

  “Cheers, Charles. Ply me with cold white Burgundy and I’ll have a go at anything.”

  “We’ll talk about it, then. But my first priority is to get the burglar alarm system underway. I really want to get that sorted out now, so that it’s installed before I go away.”

  “Yes.”

  “So … what do you have on your list?”

  “The frieze in here and in the hall … Anne’s design.”

  “Good. I’m looking forward to her painting it.”

  “I’ll get her organised straight away. She’ll probably get it done next week. Will you be around?”

  “On and off, but you still have a set of keys, I think, so she can come any time. Just let me know.”

  “She’ll need somewhere to store her materials, brushes, paint and so on.”

  “She can use the garden shed. It’s empty. You’ve got a key to the padlock on the ring.”

  They tackled the list item by item, from tie-backs in the spare bedroom to rugs in the drawing room, the few loose ends remaining. Neither mentioned Perfidia. In half an hour they covered everything. Marnie declined a second glass of wine and stood up, closing the folder. Much as she loved her work, there was a bitter taste to this project and she was struck by the melancholy note in Charles’s voice. He walked her slowly through the hall and out onto the drive.

  “Thank you for coming, Marnie.” He looked at the gate. “There is one thing we didn’t talk about. Now that Angela’s moving into the new vicarage, I think we can finally have the sign put up – The Old Rectory – just as Barbara wanted.”

  “Of course. I’ll see to it at once.” Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Will you be staying, Charles?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know, Marnie.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m glad Barbara’s real murderer has been caught, but nothing can
bring her back from the dead. I’ll never hear her voice again, or …”

  “I understand.”

  Charles took a deep breath. “I’m really glad that Neil is being released. I know it’s weird, but I’ve grown to like him in a strange sort of way over these past weeks and months.”

  “You’ve been extraordinary. Most people in your position would’ve just wanted to put it all behind them, but you persisted to the bitter end.”

  “I had to know for sure … couldn’t bear the idea of the real murderer being free and an innocent man in prison for the rest of his life.”

  “You weren’t really such an odd couple, as they made out in the papers.”

  “No. It’s not odd to want to get at the truth in something as vital as this, Marnie.”

  “What will you do next?”

  “Personally, I’m going to avoid the spotlight … go away for a while, probably the Far East … let everything blow over … not come back till it’s old news.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Marnie, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. Not just the work on the house and dealing with the boat … everything, including your friendship with Barbara. I don’t know how I would’ve coped without your support.”

  Marnie nodded. “Will you be able to put it behind you now, Charles?”

  “Almost. I think I’m getting there.”

  Walking back to Glebe Farm, Marnie agreed. At long last he was finally near to achieving the closure that he desperately needed. For the first time, Charles had referred to his wife’s lover as Neil.

  54

  On Friday morning Marnie got in first. She was at her desk as usual at seven-thirty and immediately made the call. The duty officer took her message and promised to pass it to DCI Bartlett or DS Marriner as soon as one of them arrived. On the other side of the office Anne looked on with surprise.

  “You actually want to go to the police station?”

  “To sign my statement. Inspector Bruere said I’d have to. Well, I’m going there so they don’t have to come here. I don’t want Bartlett or Marriner back, not today, not ever again. That chapter is closed. There’ll be no more visits, no more jokes about them having their own parking space.”

  “So you’re going to pre-empt them.”

  “Yep. I shall be there at nine o’clock sharp and I don’t care how long I have to wait. I’m not leaving that station until it’s done.”

  “Mm … I can hardly believe it.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to miss them, Anne?”

  “Oh no. It’s just … I suppose it’s the end of an era.”

  “That’s what it is. I want to turn over a new leaf … mark a new beginning. There will be no more police coming to Glebe Farm. And that’s final.”

  Anne waited until nine o’clock before making her first call of the day. Charles Taverner readily agreed to her making a start on the frieze on Monday morning. He offered to act as tea-boy, and she accepted with a smile in her voice.

  She had cut stencils from her first-choice design for the frieze and she packed them in a folder as soon as the call was over. Anne loved making preparations. All her equipment was laid out on the workbench in the kitchen area. There were stencil brushes rolled in a cloth, some clean jam jars, newspapers, J-cloths and other rags, hand-wipes and dust-sheets. Marnie would be buying the paint that day after her appointment was over.

  Anne packed the kit into an old sports bag. Everything was ready, and her work up at The Old Rectory would be helping the new era on its way. Life would be returning to normal, starting on Monday at nine o’clock sharp.

  Outside, the sun was breaking through the morning clouds. Birds were singing. It was a season of new beginnings.

  It was clear that Bartlett felt the same about Marnie as she did about him. By the time she walked into the reception area of the police station in Towcester and was ushered into Bartlett’s office, the statement was on his desk, faxed up from London.

  She declined coffee and read the one page document. It was fair and accurate, and she took out her pen to sign it there and then. In less than half an hour she was back on the road. Next stop, a D-I-Y supermarket on the outskirts of Northampton. Paint for the frieze from the Farrow and Ball traditional range.

  Marnie was enjoying the freedom of doing ordinary things, released from the anxiety of police procedure, witnesses, mystery and evidence. She packed the tins of paint in a box in the boot and set off for the Weedon antiques centre by the canal. Her last stop of the morning was to find a housewarming present for Angela Hemingway.

  Success! Angela had been worried that the furniture from the vicarage would be too big for her new semi. Marnie found what she wanted almost as soon as she entered the centre. It was a mahogany coffee table, probably Edwardian, but in a timeless style that would blend in with other pieces from any period. An assistant helped her stow it on the back seat of the Discovery.

  Driving home, Marnie was sure she had made a good choice. The new table would be more suitable in scale for the living room in the modern house. A few weeks earlier, when Marnie made an offer for the refectory table in the old vicarage kitchen, Angela had accepted at once.

  “Of course, Marnie. It’s just right for the country kitchen in your farm house. It’ll go well with an Aga.”

  On the way home Marnie debated with herself whether to keep the gift a secret until Saturday night or let Angela have it to put to use straight away. The decision was taken from her as she drove into the yard. Angela was talking to Anne and Bob the foreman outside the house. Offered the choice, Angela opted not to wait for her present and was delighted when Marnie opened the door to reveal it. She thanked Marnie with a hug.

  “Where shall I put it?” Marnie asked.

  “In number three?” Angela suggested.

  “Or we could take it to the new house and install it. I could drive it up now … it would save unloading it twice.”

  “Why not?… if you have the time, Marnie.”

  They climbed in and set off up the field track. Passing the old vicarage, Angela remarked that she would arrange for the refectory table to be transferred to Marnie’s area in the removals store.

  “Is Mr Taverner settling in now? It must be a huge relief to know they’ve got the right man at last … oh sorry, Marnie, if that’s a painful subject.”

  “That’s fine … not painful at all. I’m putting it all behind me. And yes, I think Charles is finally managing to do the same.”

  “Is he still going ahead with the change of name … The Old Rectory?”

  “I plead client confidentiality.” Marnie smiled. “My lips are sealed.”

  Angela laughed. “No need for me to turn a deaf ear, then.”

  While the Discovery swung past on its way to the new vicarage, Charles was in his study in the old one. He could never understand why it took so long for Neil Gerard to answer the mobile.

  “Hallo, Charles.”

  “Where were you? It rang for ages.”

  “Lying on my bunk, dozing. There isn’t a lot to do here. The question that interests me most right now is not where I am, but where I’m going.”

  “You’re just filling in time.”

  “Oh well, I’ve got plenty of experience at that. I’m an expert.”

  “How are your provisions lasting?”

  “I’ll need some more pretty soon.”

  “Right. I might ask Marnie to help with that. We’ll get you some books and magazines as well. Let me know what you’d like. You see, you’ve got to stay within reach so that I can replenish your supplies.”

  “I suppose so. I could do with my laptop. Any chance?”

  “Too risky trying to get it. I’ll let you have some writing materials.”

  “Okay. Otherwise I’ll die of boredom.”

  “It’s only for a few days.”

  “What if I need to hide for longer?”

  “You won’t, but I’ve booked the boat for a month. That’ll be more than e
nough.”

  “A month? God, it’s like being back inside. Heron has become like one of those prison hulks.”

  “Heron?”

  “The boat you’ve hired for me.”

  “A prison hulk … yes. Not much of an improvement for you, is it?” Charles pondered for a few seconds. “Listen, Neil, I have an idea …”

  55

  Not normally an early bird, Neil was happy to get up with the cockerel on Saturday morning. He had something to look forward to. That evening would be the first social event of his new life. In the early hours he untied the mooring ropes and steered Heron towards the lock at Cosgrove. No-one else was stirring. It was cloudy and still with a cool smell rising from the water. He did not care what the weather did; all weather was good weather as far as he was concerned. Freedom!

  Wearing the baseball cap, with the mobile in his pocket and binoculars hanging round his neck, he was confident that the plan was working. If the paparazzi were after him, they were paying no heed to the sleepy waterway that was his escape route, probably did not know it existed.

  Clearing the lock, he cruised past the boats moored through the village, slipped under Solomon’s bridge and headed out between the fields where the only onlookers were cattle grazing.

  In Knightly St John certain residents were also awake early at the beginning of their weekend.

  It was catching up time at Glebe Farm. In the office barn, Marnie was going through paperwork, reviewing designs, checking delivery schedules for materials, compiling lists of people to phone. In the attic, Anne was reading her project dissertation for college, adding new paragraphs and illustrations. In his study on Thyrsis, Ralph was drafting an article for The Independent following on from his visit to the USA.

  The Reverend Angela Hemingway blinked at herself in the bathroom mirror in cottage number three … the temporary New Vicarage. It was her last morning as a resident of the Glebe Farm complex, and as usual she was feeling distinctly un-reverend at that hour of the day. Already her mind was coming to grips with the party that evening. Tea and toast would fuel her on her way to the shops for last-minute items. She knew it would be a struggle to concentrate at her morning’s meeting with the committee from the Women’s Institute.