The Ice House (8 page)

"What else has she done?" he demanded curtly, eyeing the professional finish on the rag-rolled emulsion. "The decorating?"

"No, that's mostly Diana's work, though we've all lent a hand. Di's also done the upholstery and curtaining. What else has Phoebe done?" She thought for a moment. "She's rewired the house, made two extra bathrooms and put up the stud partitions between our wings and the main body. At the moment, she and Fred are working out how best to tackle a complete overhaul of the roof." She felt the weight of his scepticism and shrugged. "She's not trying to prove anything, Sergeant, nor am I by telling you. Phoebe's done what everyone else does and has adapted herself to the situation she finds herself in. She's a fighter. She's not the type to throw in her hand when the cards go against her."

He thought of his own circumstances. Loneliness frightened him.

"Were you and Mrs. Goode worried about Mrs. Maybury's mental condition after twelve months alone in this house? Was that your real reason for moving here?"

Could reality be quantified, Anne wondered, any more than truth? To say yes to such a question from such a man would be a betrayal. His capacity for understanding was confined by his prejudices. "No, Sergeant," she lied. "Diana and I have never had a moment's concern over Phoebe's mental condition, as you put it. She's a good deal more stable than you are, for example."

His eyes narrowed angrily. "You're a psychiatrist, are you, Miss Cattrell?"

"Put it this way," she said, leaning forward and studying him coolly. "I can always recognise a chronic drink problem when I see one."

The speed with which his hand shot out and gripped her throat was staggering. He pulled her relentlessly towards him across the desk, his fingers biting into her flesh, a tumult of confused emotions governing his actions. The kiss, if the brutal penetration of another's mouth can be called a kiss, was as unplanned as the assault. He released her abruptly and stared at the red weals on her neck. A cold sweat drenched his back as he realised how vulnerable he had made himself. "I don't know why I did that," he said. "I'm sorry." But he knew that under the same circumstances he would do it again. At last he felt revenged.

She wiped his saliva from her'mouth and pulled her shirt collar up round her neck. "Did you want to ask me anything else?" She spoke as if nothing had happened.

He shook his head. "Not at the present." He watched her stand up. "You can report me for that, Miss Cattrell."

"Of course."

"I don't know why I did it," he said again.

"I do," she said. "Because you're an inadequate little shit."

Sergeant Nick Robinson looked up and saw with relief that he had only two more houses to do before he reached the pub. Off to his right rose the hill which passed Streech Grange gates; behind him, some miles distant, lay Winchester; ahead of him, the brick wall which surrounded the southern flank of the Grange Estate hugged the road to East Deller. He checked his watch. It was ten minutes to opening time and he could murder a pint. If there was one thing he loathed, it was door-to-door questioning. With a lighter step he walked up the short drive to Clementine Cottage and-he checked his list-Mrs. Amy Ledbetter. He rang the bell.

After some minutes and the laborious rattle of an anti-burglar chain, the door opened six inches. A pair of bright eyes examined him. "Yes?"

He held out his identification. "Police, Mrs. Ledbetter."

The card was taken by an arthritically deformed hand and disappeared inside. "Wait there, please," said her voice. "I intend to phone the Police Station and make sure you are who you say you are."

"Very well." He leaned against the side of her porch and lit a cigarette. This was the third telephoned check on him in two hours. He wondered if the uniformed constables were having as much trouble as he was.

Three minutes later the door opened wide and Mrs. Ledbetter gestured him into the living-room. She was well into her seventies with a leathery skin and a no-nonsense look about her. She returned his warrant and told him to take a seat. "There's an ashtray on the table. Well, Sergeant, what can I do for you?"

No need to beat about the bush with this old bat, he thought. Not like her twee little neighbour who claimed that to hear about murder on the television gave her palpitations. "The remains of a murdered man were discovered in the garden of the Grange yesterday afternoon," he said baldly. "We're making enquiries to see if anyone in the village knows anything about it."

"Oh, no," said Amy Ledbetter. "Poor Phoebe."

DS Robinson looked at her with interest. This was a reaction he hadn't met with before. The mood of the other villagers he had spoken to had been one of vituperative satisfaction.

"Would it surprise you," he asked the old lady, "if I said you're the only person so far who's expressed any sympathy for Mrs. Maybury?"

She wrinkled her lips into a moue of disgust. "Of course it wouldn't. The lack of intelligence in this community is staggering. I'd have moved away years ago if I wasn't so fond of my garden. I suppose it's David's body?"

"We don't know yet."

"I see." She considered him thoughtfully. "Well, fire away. What do you want to ask me?"

"Do you know Mrs. Maybury well?"

"I've known her all her life. Gerald Gallagher, Phoebe's father, and my husband were old friends. I used to see a lot of her when she was younger and my husband was still alive."

"And now?"

She frowned. "No, I see very little of her now. My fault." She raised one of her gnarled hands. "Arthritis is the devil. It's more comfortable to stay at home and potter than go out paying calls and it makes you irritable. I was very short with her last time she came to see me and she hasn't been back since. That was about twelve months ago. My fault," she said again.

Game old bird, he thought, and probably more reliable than the others he'd talked to who had dealt in innuendo and gossip. "Do you know anything about her two friends, Mrs. Goode and Miss Cattrell?"

"I've met them, knew them quite well at one time. Phoebe used to bring them home from school. Nice girls, interesting, full of character."

Robinson consulted his notebook. "One of the villagers told me-" he looked up briefly-"and I quote: 'Those women are dangerous. They have made several attempts to seduce girls in the village, they even tried to get my daughter to join one of their lesbian orgies.' " He looked up again. "Do you know anything about that?"

She brushed a stray hair from her forehead with the back of her curled hand. "Dilys Barnes, I suppose. She won't thank you for describing her as a villager. She's a shocking snob, likes to think she's one of us."

He was intrigued. "How did you know?"

"That it was Dilys? Because she's a very silly woman who tells lies. It's lack of breeding, of course. That type will do anything to avoid being laughed at. They've ruined their children with all their snobbish ideas. They sent the boy off to public school, and he's come back with a chip on his. shoulder the size of a mountain. And the daughter, Emma," she pulled a wry face. "I'm afraid poor little Emma has become very loose. I think it's her way of getting back at her mother."

"I see," he said, completely lost.

She chuckled at his expression. "She copulates in the woods at Streech Grange," she explained. "It's a favourite spot for it." She chuckled again as the Sergeant's mouth dropped open. "Emma was seen sneaking out of the grounds late one night and the story her mother put about the next day was that absurd one she's repeated to you." She shook her head. "It's nonsense, of course, and no one really believes it, but they pay lip-service to it because they don't like Phoebe. And she's her own worst enemy. She will let them see how much she despises them. That's always a mistake. Anyway, ask Emma. She's not a bad girl. If you keep what she says confidential, she'll tell you the truth I expect."

He made a note. "Thank you, I will. You say the woods are a favourite spot for-er-copulation."

"Very much so," she said firmly. "Reggie and I used them a lot before we were married. They're particularly nice in the spring. Bluebell woods, you know. Very pretty."

He boggled at her.

"Well, well," she said calmly, "that surprises you, I see, but the young are really very ignorant about sex. People were no more able to control their desire for it in my day than they are now and, thanks to Marie Stopes, we were not unprotected." She smiled. "When you're as old as I am, young man, you'll know that where human nature is concerned, very little changes. Life, for most of us, is the pursuit of pleasure."

Well, that's true
, he thought, thinking of his pint. He abandoned his inhibitions. "We've found some used condoms on the Grange Estate which ties in with what you've been saying, Mrs. Ledbetter. Apart from Emma Barnes, do you know of anyone else who might have been making love up there?"

"Precise knowledge, no. Guesses, yes. If you promise to be tactful in approaching the people concerned, I'll give you two more names."

He nodded. "I promise."

"Paddy Clarke, the landlord at the pub. He's married to a harridan who has no idea how highly sexed he is. She thinks he takes the dog for a walk after closing time while she clears up inside, but I've seen the dog running loose in the moonlight too often to believe that. I don't sleep well," she added, by way of explanation.

"And the other?"

"Eddie Staines, one of the farmhands up at Bywater Farm. A good-looking young devil, out with a different girlfriend every month. I've seen him set off up that hill a few times." She nodded in the direction of the Grange.

"That's very helpful," he said.

"Anything else?"

"Yes." He looked a little sheepish. "Have you noticed any strangers about? In the last six months, say?" This question had been greeted with universal amusement.

Mrs. Ledbetter cackled. "Twenty-five years ago I might have been able to give you a sensible answer to a question like that. Nowadays, impossible." She shrugged. "There are always strangers about, especially in the summer. Tourists, people driving through and stopping at the pub for lunch, campers from the site at East Deller. We've had a few caravans get stuck in the ditch on the corner, usually French ones, such bad drivers they are. Ask Paddy. He pulls them out with his jeep. No, I can't help you there, I'm afraid."

"Sure?" he prompted. "Someone on foot perhaps, someone you remember from years ago?"

She gave an amused snort. "David Maybury, you mean? I certainly haven't seen him in the last few months. I'd have reported that. The last time I saw David was a week before he disappeared. It was in Winchester in the days when I could still drive and I came across him in Woolworths buying a teddy-bear for Jane. He was a strange character. Vile one day, charming the next, what my husband would have called a cad, the sort of man that women are invariably attracted to." She lapsed into silence for a moment. "There was the tramp, of course," she said.

"What tramp?"

"He came through the village some weeks back. Funny old man with a brown trilby hanging off the back of his head. He was singing 'Molly Malone,' I remember. Quite beautifully. Ask Paddy. I'm sure he went into the pub." Her head sank wearily against the back of her chair. "I'm tired. I can't help you any more. Show yourself out, young man, and don't forget to shut the gate." She closed her eyes.

DS Robinson rose smartly to his feet. "Thank you for giving me so much of your time, Mrs. Ledbetter." She was snoring quietly as he tip-toed out.

Inspector Walsh replaced the telephone receiver and stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. Dr. Webster had been irritatingly unhelpful. "Can't prove it is Maybury, can't prove it isn't," he had said cheerfully along the wire, "but my professional guess is it isn't."

"Why, for God's sake?"

"Too many discrepancies. I can't make a match on the hair for a kick-off, though I'm not saying that's the end of it. I've sent samples off to a friend of mine who claims to be an expert in these things but don't get your hopes up. He warned me that the sample you got off Maybury's hairbrush may have deteriorated too far. Certainly I couldn't do anything with it."

"What else?"

"Teeth. Did you notice our corpse was toothless? Not an incisor or molar in sight. Indications that he had dentures, but there were none with him. Looks like something or someone removed them. Now, Maybury on the other hand had all his teeth ten years ago and his records show they were in pretty good shape, only four fillings between them. That's a very different picture, George. He'd have to have suffered appalling gum disease to necessitate having all his teeth out within ten years."

Walsh pondered for a moment. "Let's say, for whatever reason, he wanted to lose his old identity. He could have had them taken out on purpose."

Webster chuckled good-humouredly. "Far-fetched though not impossible. But why would Ms. Maybury remove his dentures in that case, assuming she's our murderer? She, of all people, would know they couldn't identify him. To be honest, George, I'd say it's the other way round. Whoever murdered our chap in the ice house removed anything that would show he
wasn't
Maybury. He's had all his toes and fingertips mauled, for example, as if someone wanted to prevent us taking prints. Yet everyone at that house knows you didn't manage to lift a single workable print ten years ago."

"God damn it," exploded Walsh. "I thought I had the bastard at last. Are you sure, Jim? What about the missing fingers?"

"Well, they're certainly missing, but it looks as though they've been chopped off with a meat cleaver. I've compared them with the records of Maybury's amputations and they're nothing like. Maybury had lost the top two joints of both fingers. Our corpse has had his severed at the base of each finger."

"Doesn't prove it's not Maybury."

"I agree, but it does look as if someone who knew only that he'd lost his last two fingers has tried to make us think it's Maybury. To be honest, George, I'm not even positive at the moment that a human agency is involved. It is quite conceivable, if a little bizarre, that very sharp teeth have mutilated him in the way I've described. Take that filleting you pointed out. I've taken some close-ups of some furrows on the ribs and it's damned hard to say what they are. I can't rule out tooth marks."

"Blood group?"

"Yup, you've got a match there all right. Both O positive, just like fifty per cent of the population. And, talking of blood, you must find his clothes. There's very little in that mud we scraped off the floor."

"Great," Walsh had growled, "so what good news have you got for me?"

"I'm getting the report typed now, but I'll give you the gist. Male, white, five feet ten inches-give or take an inch on either side, both femurs have been well and truly smashed so I wouldn't be too dogmatic on that one-broad build probably running to fat, hair on chest and shoulder blades, indication of tattoo discolouration on right forearm, size eight shoe. No idea of hair colour but hair was probably dark brown before it went grey. Age, over fifty."

"Oh, for God's sake, Jim. Can't you be more precise?"

"It's not a precise science as people get older, George, and a few teeth would have helped. It's all a question of fusion between the skull plates, but somewhere between fifty and sixty is my guess at the moment. I'll come back to you when I've done some more homework."

"All right," said Walsh grudgingly. "When did he die?"

"I've taken some advice on this one. The consensus is, weighing the heat of the summer against the cool of the ice house-bearing in mind that the ambient temperature in the ice house may have been quite high if the door was open-and balancing that against the acceleration in decomposition after the scavengers had pulled him open and devoured him, plus possible mutilation by human agency but minus severe maggot infestation because the blowflies didn't lay in numbers, though I've sent some larvae off for further examination-"

"All right, all right, I didn't ask for a bloody biology lesson. How long's he been dead?"

"Eight to twelve weeks or two to three months, whichever you prefer."

"I don't prefer either of them. They're too vague. There's a month's difference. Which do you favour, eight or twelve?"

"Probably somewhere in the middle, but don't quote me."

"You'll be lucky," was Walsh's parting shot. He slammed the phone down crossly, then buzzed his secretary on the intercom. "Mary, love, could you get me all the details on a man who was reported missing about two months ago? Name: Daniel Thompson, address: somewhere in East Deller. I think you'll find Inspector Staley covered it. If he's free, ask him to give me five minutes, will you?"