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.
No response.
He stopped shouting and started thinking. The doors to both boat houses had stood open. Why would anyone want to close them again? For one
'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.
No response.
He stopped shouting and started thinking. The doors to both boat houses had stood open. Why would anyone want to close them again? For one
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