No Secrets (MARNIE WALKER Book 6)

by Leo McNeir

  “Go ahead,” said Marnie.

  “Those mystery visitors who came down to Glebe Farm … the cars that arrived and immediately took off … do we have any idea who they were?”

  Ralph replied. “I think we have to assume that was our burglar checking us out. Any sign of occupation and he was away. But if he’d found the place empty, it would be perfect … secluded … no neighbours to see or hear anything.”

  “Yes.” Anne nodded. “That’s what I wondered.”

  “Was there something else on your mind?” Marnie asked.

  “That evening … the day Barbara was killed … what actually happened then? What was all that about the row and Belle Starkey seeing someone come back?”

  “It seems pretty clear that Barbara had had what she regarded as a fling with Mike Brent,” Marnie explained. “Her affair with Neil was quite a different matter. When they were in Little Venice Mike must’ve demanded to see her, so she had to engineer a way of getting Neil off the boat for a while. She instigated the row to gain that time, knowing she would make it up with Neil later.”

  “You think she was just going to dump Mike … tell him it was all over between them?”

  “I’m sure of it. The trouble is, he was so infatuated, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “So it all got out of hand and Barbara ended up …”

  “Exactly. He seems to have used alcohol plus a sleeping pill or two to knock her out.”

  “I don’t get that bit,” Anne said. “He wouldn’t have gone to see her, conveniently carrying a bottle of sleeping pills.”

  “No. Inspector Bartlett told me they thought he probably saw some of Neil’s things on the boat – probably aftershave and such in the bathroom – and realised what was going on. He seems to have taken the pills from Barbara’s own bottle in the cabinet. Once he’d drugged her, he no doubt fixed a gas pipe, assuming she’d wake up, eventually put on the cooker and be killed in the blast. That would destroy the evidence of tampering. The gas leak could be blamed on faulty workmanship or impact damage to piping. In fact, she never did wake up.”

  “And Neil’s fingerprint on the gas valve was the only clue,” said Ralph.

  Marnie looked wistful. “A clue that lied.”

  None of them could face the news that day, even though the story had come too late to feature in the Sunday papers. They cleared the bank, untied the boat and set off to recuperate for the rest of the day on Sally Ann, none of them noticing Heron abandoned further down the cut.

  57

  A week later, Marnie drove to Northampton on a cloudy Sunday morning that threatened rain. She took a route that had become all too familiar over the past couple of years and had the usual difficulty in finding a parking space. It was a long walk, almost the whole length of the car park, before she reached the block that housed the ITU.

  She rang the bell and waited at the visitors’ door until a nurse appeared to admit her. Only one intensive care bed was occupied that day, and Marnie walked in to find the patient propped up on pillows.

  “Good morning, Neil. Hallo, Sarah.”

  Neil smiled weakly, his face pale, his pleasant features drawn. The surprise was to see the signs of strain etched in Sarah’s face. More than that, she seemed agitated and disturbed. On reflection, Marnie realised it was not to be unexpected. The bullet fired by Charles had entered Neil’s chest close to his heart and lodged against his spine. Only the rapid arrival and prompt action of the paramedics had saved his life, and his heart had stopped twice on the dash to hospital. The operation to remove the bullet had been successful, and there would be no permanent damage, at least not physical. Marnie had almost passed out later that night when Sarah had phoned from Intensive Care to tell her that Neil had survived.

  “How are you today?” Marnie asked.

  Sarah spoke first, the words spilling out in a rush. “Marnie, you won’t believe what Neil has just –‘

  Neil raised a hand to silence her. “Please, Sarah …” He waved her words away and spoke quietly and calmly. “I’m not giving evidence against Charles. I won’t do it.”

  Sarah sighed theatrically.

  Marnie sat down on the opposite side of the bed and laid a hand on Neil’s arm. “Will you have any choice? Surely the police will have to prosecute. I mean, Charles tried to kill you. Whatever your feelings may be, Neil, I doubt if they can just let it go like that.”

  “Marnie’s right, Neil. I told you –”

  “I don’t care,” Neil interrupted his sister, breathing heavily. “It’s my decision. After all I did to him … and all he did for me …there’s no way …” He paused. “I’m going to ask for a meeting with Charles’s QC to see what he says … to find out what I can do to help him.”

  Marnie was beginning to understand. Sarah was staring at her, willing her to try to persuade Neil to change his mind. Marnie knew that nothing would change his mind, and she wondered what she would do in his place. She squeezed his arm gently. “It’s an odd decision, Neil, but it’s your choice.”

  Neil’s voice was faint, his eyelids drooping. “We’re an odd couple …”

  Epilogue

  Later that Sunday afternoon, Marnie and Anne were in the office barn tidying up everything connected with Barbara, Charles and Neil. Over lunch, Marnie had explained Neil’s wish not to give evidence against Charles, and Ralph had suggested that the most he could do was urge the court to show understanding of Charles’s position and adopt a merciful approach to his crime. It was clearly, Ralph thought, a crime passionnel, and although the crime was attempted murder, even an English court would have to recognise the extreme circumstances. Marnie hoped the tapes would not be needed in evidence.

  Marnie had contacted Linford Cruising and two men had duly arrived to take Heron back to the marina. The sale of Perfidia would be handled by a brokerage company to whom all the boat’s papers were to be sent. The Little Venice management office, where the fateful events had started, would be liaising with the brokers and dealing with mooring matters until the purchasers came eventually to claim their boat.

  Marnie began assembling the papers in a blue folder, which she marked in felt tip with the name. She looked down at the word on the cover, thinking back to all that had happened to them since the first time she had seen it in the photograph of Barbara, triumphant when winning her boat-handling award at the Canalway Cavalcade.

  “What are you thinking?” Anne asked from her desk where she was tidying her own pile of documents.

  “I was remembering Charles saying he had no idea why Barbara had chosen the name, Perfidia, for her boat. He said he wondered if it was fate.”

  Anne held up a small wad of papers that she had fastened together with a clip. “It had already been chosen … nothing to do with Barbara.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These are the ownership documents – log book, insurance, registration, safety certificate, everything – all the original papers from when she was first registered as new. She was always called Perfidia by the first owners … never anything else.”

  “As simple as that,” Marnie murmured. “Barbara must’ve thought it was unlucky to change the name of a boat once it had been given. A lot of people believe that.”

  “What do you believe, Marnie? Was it all bad luck or was it fate?”

  Marnie shook her head, believing in neither.

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  About the Author

  When not writing novels, he is a linguist and lexicographer. As director of The European Language Initiative he compiled and edited twelve dictionaries in fifteen languages, including English, since the first one was published by Cassell in 1993.

  They include the official dictionaries of the Na
tional Assembly for Wales (English and Welsh), the Scottish Parliament (English and Gaelic) and a joint project for the Irish Parliament and the Northern Ireland Assembly (English and Irish).

  For the record, the others are specialist dictionaries in Basque, Catalan, Danish, Dutch, French, German, Greek, Irish, Italian, Portuguese, Russian, Scottish Gaelic, Spanish and Welsh.

  Leo and his wife, cookery writer Cassandra McNeir, live in a 300 year-old cottage in Northamptonshire.

  www.leomcneir.com