The Ice House

7

The curtain was drawn aside and Phoebe Maybury appeared at the window. She stared out for a moment, her hair a fiery red where the lamplight caught it from behind, her eyes huge in her strained white face. Looking at her, George Walsh wondered what emotions had stirred her. Fear? Guilt? Madness even? There was something amiss in those staring eyes. She was so close he could have touched her. He held his breath. She reached out, caught the handle and pulled the window to. The curtain fell back into place and moments later the light was switched off. The murmur of Phoebe's and Diana's voices continued in the kitchen, but their words were no longer audible.

Walsh beckoned to McLoughlin, whom he could dimly see, and led the way on soft feet across the terrace and on to the grass. He had been keeping a wary eye on the lighted windows of Anne's wing where her silhouette, seated at her desk, showed up strongly against the curtains. She had changed position frequently in the last half hour, but had not moved from her seat. Walsh was as sure as he could be that his and McLoughlin's short spell of eavesdropping had been unobserved.

They set off silently in the direction of the ice house, McLoughlin lighting their way with a torch which he kept shaded with one hand. When Walsh judged them far enough away from the house to be unheard, he stopped and turned to his colleague. "What did you make of that, Andy?"

"I'd say we just heard the clearest admission of guilt we're ever likely to hear," the other threw out.

"Hm." Walsh chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. "I wonder. What was it she said?"

"She admitted to relief at having got rid of her husband so easily." He shrugged. "Seems clear enough to me."

Walsh started to walk again. "It wouldn't stand up in a court of law for a minute," he mused. "But it's interesting, definitely interesting." He came to an abrupt halt. "I think she's cracking at long last. I got the impression that Mrs. Goode certainly thinks so. What's her part in this? She can't have been involved in Maybury's disappearance. We had her thoroughly checked and there's no doubt she was in America at the time."

"Accessory after the fact? She and the Cattrell woman have known Mrs. Maybury did it but have kept quiet for the sake of the children." He shrugged again. "Bar that, she seems straight enough. She doesn't know much about the ice house, that's for sure."

"Unless she's bluffing." He pondered for a few minutes. "Doesn't it seem odd to you that she can have lived here for eight years and not have seen inside that place?"

The moon came out from behind a cloud and lit their way with a cold grey lustre. McLoughlin switched off the torch. "Perhaps she didn't fancy it," he observed with grim humour. "Perhaps she knew what was in there."

This remark brought Walsh up short again. "Well, well," he murmured, "I wonder if that's it. It makes sense. No one's going to poke around in a place where they know there's a dead body. They're a hard-bitten trio. I can't see any of them going out of her way to do what's morally right. They'd harbour a corpse quite happily, provided it was out of sight. What do you think?"

His Sergeant scowled. "Women are a closed book to me, sir. I wouldn't even pretend to understand them."

Walsh chuckled. "Kelly been playing you up again?"

The laugh pierced McLoughlin's brain, scintillating and sharp as a needle. He turned away and thrust his hands and the torch deep into the pockets of his bomber jacket. Tempt me, he thought, just tempt me. "We've had a row. Nothing serious."

Walsh, who knew enough of McLoughlin's prolonged marital problems to be sympathetic, grunted. "Funnily enough, I saw her a couple of days ago with Jack Booth. She was swinging along without a care in the world, never seen her so cheerful. She's not pregnant, I suppose? She had a real bloom on her."

The bastard should have hit him. It would have hurt less. "That's probably because she's gone to live with Jack," he said casually. "She left last week." Now laugh, you sod, laugh, laugh, laugh, and give me an excuse to smash your face in.

Walsh, at a loss, gave McLoughlin's arm an awkward pat. He understood now why the lad had been so touchy the last few days. To lose your wife was bad enough, to lose her to your closest friend was a belter. My God! Jack Booth, of all people! He'd been best man at their wedding. Well, well. It explained a good deal. Why McLoughlin walked alone these days. Why Jack had suddenly decided to leave the force to work for a security firm in Southampton. "I had no idea. I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal, sir. It was all very amicable. No hard feelings on either side."

He was very cool about it. "Perhaps it's a temporary infatuation," Walsh suggested lamely. "Perhaps she'll come back when she's got over it."

McLoughlin's teeth gleamed white inside his grin, but the night hid the black rage in his eyes. "Do me a favour, sir, that's about the last thing I want to hear. God knows we never had much to say to each other before she went What the hell would we talk about if she came back?" Jesus, he wanted to hit someone. Did they all know? Were they all laughing? He would kill the first person who laughed.

He quickened his pace. "Thank God we didn't have children. This way, no one loses."

Walsh, following a few steps behind, pondered the capriciousness of human nature. He could recall a conversation he had had with McLoughlin only months before when the younger man had blamed his marital problems on the fact that he and Kelly had no children. She was bored, he claimed, found her job as a secretary unsatisfying, needed a baby to keep her occupied. Walsh had wisely kept silent, knowing from experience with his daughter that advice on domestic disputes was rarely appreciated, but he had hoped quite fervently that Fate would intervene to prevent some wretched baby being born to keep this ill-matched couple occupied. His own daughter's first pregnancy at the age of sixteen when she was still at school and unmarried had been a shock to him, but the greater shock was to discover that his wife and daughter had never really liked each other. His daughter blamed two disastrous marriages and four children on her restless seeking after love; while his wife blamed their daughter for her wasted opportunities and lack of self-esteem. George tried to make up for past failings by taking an interest in his grandchildren, but he found it difficult. His interest tended to be critical. He thought them wild and undisciplined and blamed this on his daughter's leniency and their lack of a father-figure.

Walsh's recurring nightmare was that with the careless conception of his daughter he had sown seeds of unhappiness which would grow and mature with every succeeding generation.

He caught up with McLoughlin. "Life's a puzzle, Andy. You'll look back at the end and see where all the pieces fitted, even if you can't see it now. Things will work out for the best. They always do."

"Of course they will, sir. 'All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.' You believe that crap, do you?"

Walsh was crushed. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

They were approaching the ice house which stood silhouetted against the arc-lights on the far side. McLoughlin jerked his head at the open doorway and the blackness inside. "I can guess where he would have told you to stick your little aphorism. He wouldn't agree with it."

"But his murderer might." And so might your wife, Walsh thought acidly, tucked up in bed with a little warm and jovial humanity in the shape of Jack Booth. He raised a hand in greeting to DC Jones as they rounded the building. "Found anything?"

Jones pointed to a piece of canvas on the ground. "That's it, sir. We've worked a fifty-metre radius round the ice house. I've told the lads to leave the woodland along the back wall until tomorrow. The lights throw too many shadows to see properly."

Walsh squatted on his haunches and used a pencil to sort and turn the collection of empty crisp packets, sweet wrappers, two thread-bare tennis balls and other odds and ends. He isolated three used condoms, a pair of faded bikini underpants and several spent cartridges. "We'll follow these up. I don't think the rest is going to tell us anything." He pushed himself to his feet. "Right, I think we'll call it a day. Jones, I want you to continue searching the grounds tomorrow. Concentrate on the areas of woodland, along the back wall and up by the front gates. Get a team together to help you. Andy, you carry on with the questioning until I join you. Ask Fred Phillips if he's used a shotgun recently. We'll check at the station to see whether he or anyone else here is licensed to use one. Sergeant Robinson and the PCs can go door to door in the village." He indicated the condoms and the knickers. "They seem unlikely objects for anyone in the Grange to have abandoned in the garden though you"-he looked at McLoughlin-"might ask tactfully." He turned to Jones. "Were they together in the same place?"

"Scattered about, sir. We marked the positions."

"Good man. It looks as if a local Lothario is in the habit of bringing his girlfriends up here. If so, he may be able to give us some information. I'll have Nick Robinson concentrate on that."

There was a sour look on McLoughlin's face. He didn't relish the prospect of discussing used condoms with the women at the Grange. "And you, sir?" he asked.

"Me? I'm going to check back through one or two files, particularly our friend Ms. Cattrell's. That's a tough nut. I don't fancy it, not one little bit." He pursed his lips and tugged at them with a finger and thumb.

"There's a Special Branch file on her as long as your arm, dating back to when she was a student. I had access to bits of it when Maybury went missing. It's how I knew she was at Greenham Common. She's thrown a few spanners in the works over the years. Do you remember that furore a couple of years ago over creative accounting in the Defense Ministry? Someone added a nought to a three million pound tender and the Ministry paid out ten times what the contract was worth. That was an Anne Cattrell scoop. Heads rolled. She's a dab hand at getting heads to roll." He fingered his jaw thoughtfully. "I suggest you remember that, Andy."

"You're coming it a bit strong, aren't you, sir? If she's that good, what the hell's she doing stuck out here in the wilds of Hampshire? She should be in London on one of the big nationals." Walsh's tones of amused admiration had needled him.

"Oh, she's good," said Walsh waspishly, "and she did work on a London national before she chucked it all up to come down here and turn freelance. Don't make the mistake of underestimating her. I've seen some of the comments on her file. She's a gutsy little bitch, not the sort to cross swords with lightly. She has a history of left-wing involvement and she knows everything there is to know about civil rights and police powers. She's been a press officer with CND, she's an outspoken feminist, active trades' unionist, she's been linked with the Militant Tendency and at one time she was a member of the British Communist Party-"

"Jesus Christ!" McLoughlin broke in angrily. "What the hell's she doing living in a bloody mansion? Damn it all, sir, they've got a couple of servants working for them."

"Fascinating, isn't it? What made her jack in her job and her principles? I suggest you ask her tomorrow. It's the first damn chance we've had to find out."

The old man reeked of whisky. He sat like a lumpy Guy Fawkes in the doorway of a tobacconist in Southampton, his legs encased in incongruously bright pink trousers, his ancient hat awry on his bald head, a jolly song on his lips. It was nearly midnight. As drunks will, he called out to passers-by between snatches of song; they, with sidelong glances, crossed the road or scurried by with quickened pace.

A policeman approached and stood in front of him, wondering what to do with the silly old fool. "You're a pain in the flaming arse," he said amiably.

The tramp glared at him. "A blooming bluebottle," he said, showing his age, before a gleam of recognition crept into the rheumy eyes. "Gawd love me, it's Sergeant Jordan," he cackled. He fished a brown-paper-covered bottle from the recesses of his coat, pulled the cork out with brown teeth and offered it to the bobby. "Have a drink, me old mate."

Sergeant Jordan shook his head. "Not tonight, Josephine."

The old man tipped up the bottle and emptied the contents into his mouth. His hat fell off and rolled across the doorstep. The Sergeant bent down and retrieved it, clapping it firmly on the tramp's head. "Come on, you old fool." He put his hand under an unsavoury arm and heaved the filthy object to its feet.

"You nicking me?"

"Is that what you want?"

"Wouldn't mind, son," he whined. "I'm tired. Could just do wiv a decent kip."

"And I can just do without fumigating the cell after you've been in it," the policeman muttered, pulling a card out of his pocket and reading the address on it. "I'm going to do you a favour, probably the first one you've had in years that didn't involve free booze. Come on, you're going to sleep in the Hilton tonight."

George Walsh dropped Sergeants Robinson and McLoughlin at the Lamb and Rag in Winchester Road for a quick pint before closing time, then drove to Silverborne Police Station. His route took him along the High Street past the war memorial and the old commarket, now a bank, and between the two rows of darkened shops. Beyond its rapid expansion, Silverborne's only claim to fame in the last ten years had been its physical proximity to Streech Grange and the mystery surrounding David Maybury's disappearance. That Streech should again be the centre of police attention was no coincidence in Walsh's view. There was an inexorability about murder investigations, he believed, with comparatively few remaining unsolved. Certainly lightning like this never struck twice. He was whistling tunelessly as he pushed through the front doors.

Bob Rogers was on duty behind the desk. He looked up as Walsh came in. "Evening, sir."

"Bob."

"The word is you've found Maybury."

Walsh leant an arm on the desk. "I'm not taking anything for granted," he growled. "The bastard's eluded me for ten years. I can wait another twenty-four hours before I pop the champagne. Any word from Webster?"

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.