The Ice House (7 page)

Rogers shook his head.

"Busy tonight?"

"Not so you'd notice."

"Do me a favour then. Get me a list of all persons, men and women, reported missing in our area in, say, the last six months. I'll be in my office."

Walsh went upstairs, his feet echoing loudly in the deserted corridor. He liked the place at night, empty, silent, with no ringing telephones and no inane chatter outside his door to intrude on his thoughts. He went into his office and snapped on the light. His wife had bought him a painting two Christmases ago to lend a personal touch to his bleak white walls. It hung on the wall opposite the door and greeted him every time he entered the room. He loathed it. It was a symbol of her taste, not his, a herd of glossy black horses with flowing manes galloping through an autumnal forest. He would have preferred some Van Gogh prints for the same price but his wife had laughed at the suggestion. Darling, she had said, anyone can have a print; surely you'd rather have an original? He glared at the pretty picture and wondered, not for the first time, why he found it so hard to say no to his wife.

He went to his filing cabinet and sorted through the C's. " Cairns," "Callaghan," "Calvert," " Cambridge," "Cattrell." He gave an exclamation of satisfaction, withdrew the file from the drawer and took it over to his desk. He opened it and settled into his chair, loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes.

The information was set out in the form of a CV, giving details of Anne Cattrell's history as far as it was known to the Silverborne police at the time of Maybury's disappearance. Additional, more recent information had been added from time to time on the last page. Walsh fingered his lips thoughtfully as he read. It was disappointing on the whole. He had hoped to find a chink in her armour, some small point of leverage he could use to his advantage. But there was nothing. Unless the fact that the last nine years of her life was contained on one page, while the previous ten years covered several, was worth consideration. Why
had
she given up a promising career? If she'd stayed in London she'd have been a top name by now. But in nine years her biggest success had been the Defence Ministry scoop and that, published in a monthly magazine, had been hijacked by staff reporters on the nationals. She had got little credit for it. Indeed, Walsh had only known it was her story because the name had registered in connection with Maybury. If she'd got hitched, her sudden drop in profile would have made sense, but-his face creased into a deep scowl. Was it that simple? Had she and those women entered into some sort of perverted marriage the minute they were all free? He found the idea oddly reassuring. If Mrs. Maybury had always been a lesbian, it explained so much. He was gathering the file together when Bob Rogers came in.

"I've got those names for you, sir, and a cup of tea."

"Good man." He took the cup gratefully. "How many?"

Sergeant Rogers consulted his list "Five. Two women and three men. The women are pretty obvious runaways-both adolescent or late adolescent, both left home after rows with parents and haven't been seen since. The youngest was fourteen, Mary Lucinda Phelps, known as Lucy. We mounted quite a search for her, if you remember, but never found anything."

"Yes, I do remember. Looked about twenty-five from her photograph."

"That's the one. Parents swore she was a virgin, but it turned out she'd had an abortion at the age of thirteen. Poor kid's probably on the streets in London by now. The other one's a Suzie Miller, aged eighteen, last seen in early May hitching on the A31 with an older man. We have a witness to that who said she was all over him. Her parents wanted us to treat it as a murder, but there was nothing to suggest anything untoward had happened and we've certainly never found a body. Of the three men, one's a probable suicide, though again we've not found a body, one's semi-senile and gone walkabout, and the other's bolted. That's a young Asian lad of twenty-one, with a history of depression, Mohammed Mirahmadi, five previous suicide attempts, all attempted drownings. Left home three months ago. We dragged some nearby quarry pits but without success. The second on the list's an old man, Keith Chapel, who wandered out of sheltered accommodation in the middle of March, that's nearly five months, and hasn't come back. Mind you, it's odd no one's spotted him. It says here he was wearing bright pink trousers. And finally, a Daniel Clive Thompson, fifty-two, reported missing by his wife nine, ten weeks ago. Inspector Staley looked into that one quite thoroughly. The man's business had gone bust and left a lot of people hopping mad, including most of the employees. The Inspector's view is that he's done a bunk to London. He was last seen getting off a train on Waterloo station." He looked up.

"Any of them live near Streech?"

"One of the men, Daniel Thompson. Address: Larkfield, East Deller. That's the neighbouring village, isn't it?"

"What's the description?"

"Five feet eleven, grey hair, hazel eyes, well-built, wearing a brown suit, forty-four-inch chest and brown shoes, size eight. Other information: blood group O, appendectomy scar, full set of dentures, tattoos on both forearms. Last sighting, May 25th, at Waterloo. Last seen by his wife on same day when she dropped him at Winchester station. That's all I've got here, but Inspector Staley's got quite a file on him. Shall I look it out for you?"

"No," Walsh growled angrily. "It's Maybury." He watched Bob Rogers walk to the door. "Damn and blast it! It's like leaving your umbrella behind on a fine day. It always rains. Leave me the list. If I hang onto it, it's bound to be Maybury." He waited till the door closed, then stared glumly at the description of Daniel Thompson. His face looked ten years older.

When Anne entered the library the following morning she found McLoughlin standing by the window, gazing broodingly out over the gravel drive. He turned as she came in and she noticed the black rings of a sleepless night round his eyes and the tell-tale nicks of a clumsy shave on his neck and chin. He smelled of anger and frustration and yesterday's beer. He gestured for her to sit down, waited until she had done so, then settled himself in the chair behind the desk. Particles of dust shimmered and danced in the sunlight that shafted between them. They eyed each other with open dislike.

"I won't keep you long, Miss Cattrell. Chief Inspector Walsh will be here later and I know he has some questions to ask you. For the moment, I'd like to concentrate on the finding of the body and one or two related matters. Perhaps you could start by running through the events of yesterday afternoon, beginning with the arrival of the gardener."

Anne did as she was asked, knowing it would be a waste of time to point out that she had already done this the previous afternoon for PC Williams. From time to time she glanced at McLoughlin but looked away again when he refused to drop his gaze. There was a new awareness in his eyes which meant he was better informed about her. And how tiresome that was, she thought. Yesterday, he had despised her; today, he saw her as a challenge. With an inward sigh she began to prepare her defences.

"You don't know who he was, how he got there, or when. Had you seen inside the ice house before yesterday?"

"No."

"Then why did you tell us that you and Mrs. Goode had cleared the rubbish out of it six years ago?"

Anne had been well prepared for this by Diana. "Because it seemed like a good idea at the time." She fished a cigarette out of her pocket and lit it. "I wanted to save you time and trouble. You should be looking outside the Grange for your victim and your suspects. It's nothing to do with anyone here."

He was unimpressed. "It's never a good idea to tell lies to the police. With your experience you should know that."

"My experience?" she queried silkily.

"If you don't mind, we'll dispense with the word games, Miss Cattrell. It'll save a lot of time."

"You're quite right, of course," she agreed mildly. What a prig the man was!

His eyes narrowed. "Did you lie because you understood the significance of the ice house and the importance of knowing where it was?"

She was silent for a moment. "I certainly understood that
you
would consider it significant. You have yet to persuade me that it is. I share Mrs. Goode's view that its location is probably known to a number of people, or that chance played a part in the body's being there."

"We have found some used condoms in the area around the ice house," McLoughlin said, abruptly changing the subject. "Have you any idea who would have left them there?"

Anne grinned. "Well, it wasn't me, Sergeant. I don't use them."

He showed his irritation. "Have you had intercourse there with someone who does, Miss Cattrell?"

"What, with a man?" She gave her throaty chuckle. "Is that a very sensible question to ask a lesbian?"

He gripped his knees tightly with trembling fingers as a sudden black rage hammered in his head. He felt terrible, his eyes smarting from lack of sleep, his mouth tasting foul. What a loathsome bloody bitch she was, he thought. He took a few shallow breaths and eased his hands on to the desk. They shook with a life of their own. "Have you?" he asked again.

She watched him closely. "No, I haven't," she answered calmly. "Nor, as far as I know, has anyone else in the house." She leaned forward and tapped the end of her cigarette against the side of an ashtray. He moved his hands to his lap.

"Perhaps you could clear up something that puzzles both Chief Inspector Walsh and myself," he continued. "We understand you and Mrs. Goode have been living here for several years. How is it neither of you has seen inside the ice house?"

"In the same way that most Londoners have never seen inside the Tower. One doesn't tend to explore things on one's own doorstep."

"Did you know of its existence?"

"I suppose so." She thought for a moment. "I must have done. I don't remember being surprised at Fred mentioning it."

"Did you know where it was?"

"No."

"What did you think the hillock was?"

"I can only recall walking right round these gardens once and that was when I first came here. I expect I thought the hillock was a hillock."

McLoughlin didn't believe her. "Don't you go for walks? With the dogs, with your friends?"

She turned her cigarette in her fingers. "Do I look like someone who takes exercise, Sergeant?"

He studied her briefly. "As a matter of fact you do. You're very slim."

"I eat very little, drink only neat spirits and smoke like a chimney. It does wonders for the figure but leaves me gasping for breath halfway up the stairs."

"Don't you help with the gardening?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I'd be a liability. I couldn't tell the difference between a rose-bay willow-herb and a Michaelmas daisy. In any case, when would I find the time? I'm a professional woman. I work all day. We leave the gardening arrangements to Phoebe, that's her province."

He thought of the pot plants in her room. Was she lying again? But why lie about gardening, for Christ's sake? His hand wandered to the uneven stubble on his jaw, touching, testing, fingering. Without warning, a shutter of panic snapped shut in his brain, blanking his memory. Had he shaved? Where had he slept? Had he had breakfast? His eyes glazed and he looked straight through Anne into a darkness beyond her, as of she was in a dimension outside his narrow line of vision.

Her voice was remote. "Are you all right?"

The shutter opened again and left him with the nausea of relief. "Why are you living here, Miss Cattrell?"

"Probably for exactly the same reason you're living in your house. It's as nice a roof over my head as I could find."

"That's hardly an answer. How do you square Streech Grange and its two servants with your conscience? Isn't it rather too-privileged for your taste?" His voice grated with derision.

Anne stubbed out her cigarette. "I simply can't answer that question. It's based on so many false premises that it's entirely hypothetical. Nor, frankly, do I see its relevance."

"Who suggested you come here? Mrs. Maybury?"

"No one. It was my suggestion."

"Why?"

"Because," she repeated patiently, "I thought it would be a nice place to live."

"That's crap," he said angrily.

She smiled. "You're forgetting the sort of woman I am, Sergeant. I have to take my pleasures where I find them. Phoebe wouldn't-couldn't-leave this house to come to London, so I had to come here. It's very simple really."

There was a long silence. "Pleasures don't last," he said softly. The shutter flickered horribly in his brain. " 'Pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts forever.' " He spoke the words to himself. There was another silence. "In your case, Miss Cattrell, the price of pleasure would seem to be hypocrisy. That's a high price to pay. Was Mrs. Maybury worth it?"

If he'd turned a knife in her gut, he couldn't have hurt her more. She took refuge in anger. "Let me give you a brief resume of what led up to this line of questioning. Someone, probably Walsh, told you: she's a feminist, a lefty, a member of CND, an ex-Commie, and God knows what other rubbish besides. And you, exulting in your superiority because you're male and heterosexual, leapt at the chance of having a go at me on matters of principle. You're not interested in truth, McLoughlin. The only issue here is whether you and your inflated ego can make a dent in mine and, Jesus," she spat at him, "you're hardly original in that."

He, too, leant forward so that they were facing each other across the desk. "Who are Fred and Molly Phillips?" She was unprepared, as he had known she would be, and she couldn't hide the flash of concern in her eyes. She sat back in her chair and reached for another cigarette. "They work for Phoebe as housekeeper and gardener."

"Mrs. Goode told us you arranged their employment here. How did you find them?"

"I was introduced to them."

"Through your work, through your political contacts? Perhaps penal reform is one of your interests?"

Damn him to hell and back
, she thought,
he wasn't a complete clod after all.
"I'm on the committee of a London-based group for the rehabilitation of ex-prisoners. I met them through that."

She expected triumph and gave him reluctant credit when he didn't show it. "Have they always been called Phillips?"

"No."

"What was their surname?"

"I think you should ask them that."

He passed a weary hand across his face. "Well, of course, I can, Miss Cattrell, and that will simply drag out the agony for everybody. We will find out one way or the other."

She looked out of the window, over his shoulder, to where Phoebe was pinching the dead-heads off the roses bordering the drive. She had lost her tension of the previous evening and squatted contentedly in the sun, tongues of flame curling in her shining hair, nimble fingers snapping through the flower stems. Benson sat hotly beside her, Hedges lay panting in the shade of a dwarf rhododendron. The sun's heat, still far from its peak, shimmered above the warm gravel.

" Jefferson," said Anne.

The Sergeant made the connection immediately. "Five years each for the murder of their lodger, Ian Donaghue."

Anne nodded. "Do you know why the sentences were so lenient?"

"Yes, I do. Donaghue buggered and killed their twelve-year-old son. They found him before the police did and hanged him."

She nodded.

"Do you approve of personal vengeance, Miss Cattrell?"

"I sympathise with it."

He smiled suddenly and for a brief moment she thought he looked quite human. "Then at last we've found something we can agree on." He tapped his pencil on the desk. "How well do the Phillipses get on with Mrs. Maybury?"

"Extremely well." Surprisingly, she giggled. "Fred treats her like royalty and Molly treats her like muck. It's a stunning combination."

"I expect they're grateful to her."

"The reverse. I'd say Phoebe is more grateful to them."

"Why? She's given them a new home and employment."

"You see the Grange as it is now but when I moved in nine years ago, Phoebe had been managing on her own for a year. She was shunned by everybody. No one from the village or even Silverborne would work for her. She had to do the gardening, the housework and house maintenance herself and the place was like a tip." A stone lurched sickeningly in her mind as memories struggled to get out. It was the stench of urine, she thought. Everywhere. On the walls, the carpets, the curtains. She would never forget the terrible stench of urine. "Fred and Molly's arrival a couple of months after us changed her life."

McLoughlin stared about the library. There was a good deal that was original, the carved oak bookcases, moulded plaster cornices, the panelled fireplace, but there were other things that were new, the paintwork, a radiator under the window, secondary glazing in white stove-enamel frames, all certainly under ten years old.

"Have the local people changed their attitude to Mrs. Maybury now?"

She followed his gaze. "Not at all. They still won't do any work for her." She flicked ash from her cigarette. "She tries from time to time without success. Silverborne's a dead duck. She's been as far as Winchester and Southampton with the same result. Streech Grange is notorious, Sergeant, but then you already know that, don't you?" She smiled cynically. "They all seem to think they're going to be murdered the minute they set foot in the place. With some justification, it would seem, after yesterday's little discovery."

He jerked his head at the window. "Then who put in the central heating and the double glazing? Fred?"

"Phoebe."

He laughed with genuine amusement "Oh, for God's sake! Look, I know you're on some personal crusade to prove that women are the be-all and end-all, but you can't expect me to swallow
that
." He got up and strode across to the window. "Have you any idea how much glass like this weighs?" He tapped a pane of the double-glazing and drew the unwelcome attention of Phoebe outside. She looked at him curiously for a moment then, seeing him turn away, resumed her gardening. He came back to his chair. "She couldn't begin to lift it, let alone set it professionally in its frame. It would need at least two men, if not three."

"Or three women," said Anne, unmoved by his outburst. "We all lend a hand with the lifting. There are five of us after all, eight on the week-ends when the children come home."

"Eight?" he queried sharply. "I thought there were only two children."

"Three. There's Elizabeth, Diana's daughter, as well."

McLoughlin ruffled his fingers through his hair, leaving a dark crest pointing towards the ceiling. "She never mentioned a daughter," he said sourly, wondering what other surprises lay in store.

"You probably didn't ask her."

He ignored this. "You said Mrs. Maybury also did the central heating. How?"

"The same way plumbers do it, presumably. I remember she favoured capillary joints so there was a lot of wire wool involved and flux and soldering equipment. There were also numerous lengths of fifteen- and twenty-two-millimetre copper piping lieing around. She hired a pipe-bending machine for several weeks with different sized pre-formers to make S-bends and right angles. I got a damned good article on women and DIY out of it."

He shook his head. "Who showed her how to do it? Who connected up the boiler?"

"She did." She was amused by his expression. "She got a book from the library. It told her exactly what to do."

Andy McLoughlin was intensely sceptical. In his experience, a woman who could connect a central-heating boiler simply didn't exist. His mother, who held unenlightened ideas about a woman's place in the home, rooted herself firmly in the kitchen, scrubbed and cleaned, washed and cooked and refused adamantly even to learn how to change an electric plug, maintaining it was man's work. His wife, who by contrast had claimed enlightened ideas, had enrolled as a temporary secretary and called herself a career woman. In reality she had idled her days away, painting her nails, playing with her hair, complaining constantly of boredom but doing nothing about it. She had reserved her energies for when her husband came home, unleashing them in a fury of recriminations over his long hours of work, his neglect of her, his failure to notice her appearance, his inability to be the admiring prop her insecure personality demanded. The irony was that he had been attracted to her in the first place because his mother's kitchen mentality appalled him and yet, of the two of them, his mother had the brightest intellect. He had come away from both relationships with a sense, not of his own inadequacy, but of theirs. He had looked for equality and found only an irritating dependence.