8
Write something, even if it's just a suicide note.
'I can't tell you how grateful I am.'
Bob nodded and stepped inside. Miss Snow showed him into her writing den and closed the door behind her. She was as strung out as a line of washing.
'Did you bring it?'
He handed over the video.
Her voice shook as she said, 'The police were here this afternoon. They said they needed this as evidence. Maurice must have told them about it.'
'What did you say?'
'That it was being passed around the circle and I'd have to make some phone calls.'
'Fair enough.'
'I promised to take it in to the police station tomorrow.'
'And now you can.' He didn't understand why she needed it tonight. He could have delivered it in the morning, taken it to the nick himself if she wanted. And he couldn't see why a visit from the police had got her into such a state.
It was obvious he wasn't going to be offered a chair, so he took a step back, preparing to leave. His leg nudged a low table and a couple of magazines slipped off. He picked them up and replaced them. One was the
She was too wound up to get embarrassed. 'Poor Maurice must be at his wits' end,' she was saying. 'He wouldn't have told them about the video unless he was desperate.'
'Why not?'
'It's like informing on his friends. So out of character. Not the way Maurice would behave unless he was up against it.'
'If you or I were on a murder rap, we'd do the same. Anything to muddy the water.'
'But he's innocent,' she said.
'If he is, then someone else is guilty, and the odds are that it's one of the people on that video.'
Her eyes held his, and she said in a mystified voice, 'You still sound doubtful, as if you think he might have done it.'
'Open mind. I've talked to a couple of people this evening and I'm still in the dark.'
'Who?'
'Tudor and Fran. But I learned a bit more about Blacker and his dealings. He was a crooked publisher. None of his authors made any money. He took money off them.'
'Do the police know that?'
'Maurice knows. He will have told them.' He stifled a yawn. 'I'll be off, then.'
She put her hand to her throat and fingered her bead necklace. 'There's something I haven't told you.'
'What's that?'
'Later, after the police had been, I had a phone call. A man's voice. He didn't say who he was. He asked me if I was the secretary of the circle and when I said yes he said he could prove Maurice is in the clear, but I must keep it to myself. Those were his words.' She took a ragged breath, as if the memory was all too stressful. 'He said he wanted to help and he would hand me the proof tomorrow. I was to meet him at eight in the morning in the boat house near the canal basin.'
'That was all?'
'Yes. He sounded very definite. I believed him.'
'The voice. Was it disguised, muffled?'
'A bit indistinct. I didn't recognise it. Bob, I don't know what to do. Should I tell the police? If this is going to help Maurice, I don't want to jeopardise anything. I'm scared.'
'You want me to take over?'
She looked as if the sun had just come out. 'Would you?'
'Eight at the boat house. No problem.'
Bob didn't feel so confident walking to the boat house next morning. His guess was that Miss Snow's mysterious caller was some nutter who had read about the case in the papers. Every murder brings a few out of the woodwork. But it had to be checked. And nutters can be nasty.
The only boat house he knew was on the side of the canal opposite the towpath, which meant making an approach along the lane skirting the Chichester High School grounds. It took him past the police station where, presumably, Maurice was still being held — poor old soul, innocent or not.
At this time of day the choice of meeting place was clever. You had to go along a footpath past a tennis court and a couple of scout huts with acres of school field on your left. It all looked deserted. The boat house was in fact two buildings used for storing canoes. The simple wooden huts with pitched roofs stood side by side above some steps and a launching area. On previous walks along the towpath Bob had more than once stopped to watch the kids on the water attempting to roll the canoes completely over.
This Saturday morning there were no canoeists yet, but the large metal doors had been opened, so presumably there was a session planned for later. Someone must have unlocked and couldn't be far away.
Seeing no one outside, he stepped into the first hut where the canoes were ranged on racks.
'Anyone at home?'
No response.
He came out and looked into the second hut. This one contained a trailer loaded with more canoes. Nobody was in there.
He was beginning to think the whole thing was a hoax.
He checked his watch. It wasn't quite five to eight. Give them ten minutes, then I'm off, he told himself. He perched on the edge of the trailer, took a banana from his pocket and unpeeled it. He'd left home too early for breakfast.
Saturdays were special. He liked to watch sport if possible, the real thing, not TV. He didn't mind what. If there was racing at Goodwood or Fontwell, he'd be there. Through the winter it was football: the Portsmouth home matches. He'd played a bit as an amateur when he was younger and fitter.
He looked at the time again. Eight, spot on. All over the country people were sitting down to cooked breakfasts, and Bob Naylor was stuck in a boat house without even a flask of coffee. Thanks a bunch, Miss Snow.
There was a change in the birdsong outside, the urgent repetitive warning note a blackbird makes when a cat is about. Or a person. Better take a look, he thought.
He was on his feet and heading outside when it happened.
The door slammed shut — in his face.
It wasn't the wind. Someone was outside. This was a strong metal door. He heard the bar being drawn across to fasten it.
'Hey! I'm in here.'
He pushed at it and couldn't move the thing. He hammered his hand against it.
'Open up, will you? I'm inside.'
The place was in darkness. There were no windows.
'Oy!'
He gave the door a kick. Whoever was outside must have heard him. The door was solid iron and it rumbled like a beer keg when he struck it.
He shouted again.
