Meanwhile Gardens (38 page)

Ollie smiled. “Gem’ll like that.”

“This’ll make you chuckle too,” Johnson unrolled the magazine which Ollie could see was called FOLK! On the cover was a picture of dancers in traditional garb. “It’s one of Luca’s titles. Angie keeps it on her desk as aversion therapy – you know if the subscriptions and advertising aren’t great that’s where she’ll slide to.” Johnson flipped through the magazine until he found the page he was looking for. “Look, isn’t this precious?”

The page was headlined ‘Schism amongst the Morris’. Ollie did a doubletake when he saw the picture underneath. The art editor had arranged the photograph so that it appeared to be ripped in two. On one side were a group of men dressed all in white with red sashes around their waists. Facing them were Gorby, Ted and Mary in full tweed, alongwith a couple of others Ollie didn’t recognise.

“I mean what are they going to do – prance each other to death?”

The hour had passed pleasantly enough but Ollie was itching for his guest to leave.

“It’s Rion isn’t it?” Johnson asked.

Ollie nodded.

“Still no news?”

“Not really.”

There was no way Ollie was going to get into the whole catacombs thing – let alone the M4 mystery – the drama of it all would keep Johnson there for days.

“I must say Angie seems to have cooled on that – still she has enough on her plate at the moment,” Johnson pulled on his floorlength Ralph Lauren overcoat. “Phone me if you hear from Wayne,” he hugged Ollie. “Ciao for now.”

As soon as he heard the Merc purr out of the mews Ollie called FOLK! He was immediately put through to the journalist in question. Ollie was relieved when a man answered in a voice both friendly and helpful. He couldn’t handle an aggressive hard-nosed journalist at this time – but then, what would hard-nosed journalists be doing working on a magazine like FOLK! anyway?

Ollie got straight to the point. “It’s about the article in this month’s issue.”

“Which one?”

“Schism amongst Dancers?”

“Ah yes,” the journalist paused for a second. “I had to ask because I wrote more than several articles in the November issue. In fact I practically wrote the whole damn thing singlehandedly,” the journalist gave a nervous laugh. “And I don’t mean I wrote it with one hand either!”

I wonder how many times you’ve said that Ollie thought. He looked at the picture again. The caption confirmed the couple’s identity. “It’s about Mary McGrath?”

“Ah Mary. One of the experts on the Morris. Her father was king of the Morris Men of course.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” the journalist said slowly. “I know he had some illness. He hasn’t been seen for years
anyway. They’re traditionalists you know, sort of Morris Dancer fundamentalists,” the journalist gave his nervous little laugh again. “That was the problem.”

“How so?”

“Well, traditionalists want to keep the link to Mummers Plays – ”

“Mummers Plays?”

“Yes as they – ”

“Wait a second,” Ollie interrupted. “What exactly
are
Mummers Plays?”

“Oh, ceremonial dramas typically involving death and resurrection. The Morris used to be closely linked to them in ancient times but that was when the dances were more – er – ” the journalist paused whilst searching for the right word, “ – involved.”

“Involved?”

“Yes, when they used sacrifices and things – goats, sheep, white bulls, young girls….”

Ollie felt a pain as if a needle, sharp and cold, had been jabbed through his heart. “Young girls?” he gasped, his chest suddenly constricted.

The journalist gave what was now his annoying laugh, “Oh yes. Lock up your daughters when the Morris come to town!”

Ollie put the phone down, the most awful thought numbing his mind.

Nicky rushed over as soon as she got Ollie’s call. “It’s the McGraths!” she shrieked when she saw the picture.

“I told you.”

From his bed by the fire Hum cast his eye over Nicky, Ollie
and Auntie Em who pored over the photograph from FOLK! In the background the radio played a mournful tune by one of Rion’s heartthrobs.

Ollie got up and angrily switched off the stereo, “I can’t bear that song.”

“Me neither, ” Nicky added.

“And you hear it everywhere!” Auntie Em began. “I was on my balcony this morning, trying not to have a cigarette – ”

“How’s that going?”

“Not great Nicks, I’ve got to read Allen Carr again – but I could hear fragments of it on car stereos, from builders’ radios….everywhere.”

“And if it’s not that it’s something else,” Nicky complained. “They played Protection – ”

“ – by Massive Attack?” Ollie asked. The song was in his and Nicky’s All Time Top Ten.

Nicky nodded, “ – on the radio yesterday and I burst into tears! Just couldn’t stop it.”

“Yeah,” Ollie grimaced, knowing how a tune can dagger the heart. He put his arm around Nicky, “But what are we going to do?”

The three friends frowned in silence, their brows ruffled in concentration, one person forever on their minds. A pounding on the door broke into their thoughts.

Jake had arrived early. “I just saw them,” he gasped as Nicky let him in. He quickly moved past her and up the stairs.

“Saw who?” Nicky asked to his back.

Jake gave a quick wave to Ollie and Emma before flopping into one of the straight-backed chairs. He collapsed forward onto the table to catch his breath.

Nicky tried again, “Saw who?”

It took several seconds before Jake had recovered enough
to reply, “Them. On a boat.”

“Who??” Nicky asked, exasperated at the vagueness of it all.

“The tweedy couple that run the cemetery.”

“Ted and Mary?”

Jake nodded. “I’d just got back from Crouch End and was having a post-work spliff on the canal when they chugged past.”

Ollie smacked his fist into his palm. “And you’re sure it was them?”

“Positive. Isn’t their boat called the Morrisco?”

Ollie whistled between his teeth. “But where are they going? And how do we find out?”

“Wherever it is you can bet Rion’s there.” Jake and Ollie frowned in silence, their brows ruffled in concentration.

“For Heaven’s sake,” Nicky said, “why don’t you just phone the cemetery? You know, pretend to be someone?”

Ollie, Jake and Auntie Em looked at Nicky, looked at each other then looked back at Nicky.

“Oh no,” she said.

“C’mon Nicks. I’m crap at lying, I get all tongue-twisted and it just never works.”

“Me too,” Jake added. “I’m anything but convincing.”

“But you know when I lie I have to be someone else and I’m terrible at accents.”

It was too late. Ollie was already thumbing through the phone book. “Say it’s about the boat or something, their mooring rights, anything just use your imagination.”

Nicky looked at her watch. It was six fifteen. “There’ll be no-one there.”

Ollie pressed the speaker button and dialled, “Just try.”

After the third ring Nicky breathed out a sigh of relief, “I told you. I’ll do it tomorrow – I swear.”

“Shhhh,” Ollie gestured for her to be quiet.

After six rings she got up from the table. “They must have gone home. C’mon, who’s going to – ”

“Hello?” a man’s voice with a pleasing burr stopped Nicky in her tracks. She whipped round.

“Hello? Is anybody there?” the voice from the phone asked again.

Nicky quickly sat down. “Er, hello, this is Rhona from Little Venice – ”

Auntie Em tried not to cringe as Nicky spoke with an Australian inflection, ending each phrase as if everything was a question.

“ – could I please speak with Ted and Mary?”

“I’m sorry they’re away. Can I help?”

Summoning all her knowledge gleaned from Australian soap operas Nicky ploughed on, “Aw, jeez, you wouldn’t know where I could reach them do you?”

Ollie began scribbling something on the notepad.

“It’s real important,” Nicky continued. “Are they on the Morrisco?”

Ollie held up the notepad on which he had written, ‘Name of Mr Dwight’s boat?’ Jake shrugged.

“Well, yes,” the man said, unsure how much information he should give out. “They are in fact.”

“Do you know where they’ll be mooring? Will it be with Mr Dwight?”

“Ah, you know Gorby?”

“Of course. He’s a – ” Nicky was stuck for words, “ – a cobber.”

This obviously wasn’t the answer the man at the other end was expecting to hear.

“Excuse me?”

Nicky thought it best not to repeat her last sentence. She
looked at Ollie who pointed once more to the notepad.

“Please hold,” Nicky pressed the mute button.

“What’s Mr Dwight’s boat called?” Jake asked.

“There’s some literary connection,” Nicky ground her teeth furiously, “a famous book or something – ”

“It’s the Ivanhoe isn’t it?” Ollie suggested.

“That’s the one!” She flipped back to the speakerphone, “Is Mr Dwight on the Ivanhoe?”

“Sorry?”

Nicky thought frantically back to the Halloween walk down the canal. “I mean the Hiawatha? – his boat?”

There was silence for a second.

“Do you mean the Longfelloe?”

“That’d be right,” Nicky corrected.

“They’ll be moored outside his mother’s as always,” Senior replied. “Who did you say you were again?”

Ollie pulled a finger over his throat. Nicky nodded.

“You’ve been beaut,” Nicky put the phone down and heaved a sigh of relief.

“Australian?” Jake asked.

“I can’t help it. My Scottish is even worse,” she shrugged her shoulders. “It just takes over – sort of a defence mechanism against lying I guess.”

“Longfellow. Longfellow,” Ollie paced back and forth. “Now why – ” He took a deep breath, “Back in a sec.” Ollie took the stairs in two leaps and ran to his van in the mews.

Moments later he was back, in his hands the Road Map of Great Britain. “I was doing some research on where the canal went,” Ollie muttered, searching frantically through the index. “Aha!” he grinned. “17 SP9 416.” He quickly found page seventeen, all the while chanting, “SP9 416 SP9 416.”

Ollie moved his fingers along the grid until they met.
“Longfelloe!” he said triumphantly.

Nicky and Jake looked over his shoulder to see him pointing to a speck on the map.

“And look,” Ollie traced a thin blue line that ran past the tiny settlement. “Any guesses?”

“The Grand Union Canal!” Nicky and Jake said in unison.

Ollie nodded. “Let’s go.”

“Now? Shouldn’t we wait ‘til morning?” Nicky asked.

“We need to go tonight,” Jake said firmly.

“Wouldn’t it be better to go when it’s daylight?”

Her reasoning was cut short by the phone. Ollie answered it before it could ring again, “Hello?” After a series of monosyllabic replies he put the phone down. “That was Tanya. Rion’s friend from Bridlington.”

“The psychic one?”

Ollie nodded, his face ashen.

“What is it?” Nicky asked concerned.

“Tanya just sounded really worried. Rion’s ‘pulse’, as she puts it, is getting fainter and fainter. She says she can’t even feel it sometimes.”

That did it for Nicky. “We’re outta here.”

Ollie and Jake needed no convincing.

Nor did Hum.

The dog gave a brisk bark, alert to all the signs of adventure, but this is one he would have to sit out. “You’ll look after the hound won’t you?” Ollie asked Auntie Em. “His food’s under the sink as always.” Ollie ran his hand down his dog’s back, “You’ve got to stay here boy. Stay.” Upon hearing his least favourite word, Hum settled back into his snug and pointedly avoided Ollie’s eyes.

“Don’t do anything st – ” Auntie Em began but the three had already raced down the stairs and were out the door. She
watched them pile into Ollie’s van and rumble from the small mews. Auntie Em leant down to stroke Hum behind the ears, “Let’s hope they know what they’re doing.”

Or else, she thought unhappily, there would be only her, Gem and Humdinger left. It would be like something out of Agatha Christie.

And then there were three.

Rion’s cough was now a burning wheeze that slid down her chest in a frightening echo of her previous illness.

She could feel herself growing weaker. The weeks in captivity were taking their toll. She was losing her will to live.