The Ice House Part 8

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake grow up," she exploded angrily, her worry and her uncertain temper getting the better of her. "There are times when I could quite happily murder you, Jon."

"We've found a pair of shoes, sir." DC Jones placed a transparent plastic bag on the ground at Walsh's feet.

Walsh, who was sitting on a tree stump at the edge of the woodland surrounding the ice house, leaned forward to peer at the bag's contents. The shoes were good quality brown leather with irregular cloudy patches on the surface where damp had penetrated and then dried. One shoe had a brown lace, the other a black lace. Walsh turned the bag over and looked at the soles.

"Interesting," he said. "New heels with metal studs. There's hardly a mark on them. What size are they?"

"Eights, sir." Jones pointed to the shoe with the brown, lace. "You can just make it out on that one."

Walsh nodded. "Tell one of your men to go up to the house and find out what size shoes Fred Phillips and Jonathan Maybury wear, then on down to the village to see how Robinson and his chaps are getting on. If they've finished, I want them up here."

"Righto," said Jones irreverently.

Walsh stood up. "I'll be at the ice house with Sergeant McLoughlin."

DS Robinson returned to the pub as the last customers left.

"Sorry, mate," said the landlord amiably, recognising him from the pint he had bought earlier. "Too late. Can't serve you now."

Robinson proffered his identification. "DS Robinson, Mr. Clarke. I'm asking questions around the village. You're my last port of call."

Paddy Clarke leaned his elbows on the bar and chuckled. "The body at the Grange, I suppose. There's been talk of nothing else all lunchtime. Sod all I can tell you about it."

Nick Robinson perched himself on a bar stool and offered Paddy a cigarette before taking one himself. "You'd be surprised. People often know more than they think they do."

He a.s.sessed his man rapidly and decided here was another where a straightforward approach would pay. Paddy was a big, bluff man with a ready smile and a shrewd eye. But not a person to cross, Robinson thought. His hands were the size of meat plates.

'"We're interested in any strangers who may have been through Streech in the last few months, Mr. Clarke."

Paddy guffawed with laughter. "Give me a break. I get strangers in here every day, people taking the back roads down to the West Country, stopping off for a quick lunch. Can't help you there."

"Fair enough, but someone mentioned seeing an old tramp a while back, thought he may have come in here. Does that ring a bell?"

Paddy squinted through the smoke from his cigarette. "Funny. I wouldn't have remembered him myself, but now you mention it, we did have one in here, said he'd walked from Winchester. Looked like a bundle of old rags, sat in the corner over there." He nodded to a corner by the fireplace. "The wife wanted me to turn him away, but I'd no reason to. He had money and he behaved himself, made a couple of pints last through to closing time then shambled off along the Grange wall. You think he's involved?"

"Not necessarily. We're just looking for leads at the moment. When was this? Can you remember?"

The big man thought for a moment. "It was p.i.s.sing down outside. Reckon he came in to dry off. The wife might remember when. I'll ask her and give you a ring if you like."

"She's not here then?"

"Gone to the Cash and Carry. She'll be back soon."

Nick Robinson checked his notebook. "I gather you also do a Good Samaritan act with stranded caravans."

"About twice a year when idiots cut the corner. It's good for business, mind. They usually feel obliged to come in and eat something." He nodded towards the window. "It's the Council's fault. They've stuck a b.l.o.o.d.y great sign for the East Deller campsite at the top of the hill. I've complained about it but n.o.body takes any notice."

"Anything strike you about the people you've rescued, anything unusual?"

"There was a one-legged German midget once with a wife like Raquel Welsh. That struck me as unusual."

Nick Robinson smiled as he made a note. "Nothing unusual."

"You don't have much to go on, do you?"

"That depends on you." Unconsciously, the policeman lowered his voice. "Is anyone else here?"

Paddy's eyes narrowed slightly. "No one. What are you after?"

"A confidential chat, sir, preferably with no eavesdroppers," said Robinson, eyeing the large hands.

Paddy squeezed the glowing end of his cigarette into an ashtray with fingers the size of sausages. "Go ahead." His tone was not inviting.

"The body was found in the ice house at the Grange. Do you know the ice house?"

"I know there is one. I couldn't lead you to it."

"Who told you about it?"

"Probably the same person who told me there's a two-hundred-year-old oak in the woods," said Paddy with a shrug. "Maybe I got it from David Maybury's booklet. I couldn't say."

"What booklet?"

"I've some copies somewhere. David had this idea of fleecing the tourists, wanted to turn Grange into another Stourhead. He produced a map of the grounds with a short history of the house and had a hundred or so copies printed. It was a dead duck from the word go. He wouldn't spend any money on advertising and who the h.e.l.l's ever heard of Streech Grange?" Paddy gave a derogatory snort. "Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He was a cheapskate, always expected something for nothing."

Robinson's eyes were alight with interest. "Do you know who else has this booklet?"

"We're talking twelve to thirteen years, Sergeant. As far as I remember, David handed them out to anyone who would pa.s.s them on to tourists. Testing the water, he said. Whether anyone else's still got a copy I wouldn't know."

"Can you look yours out?"

The other man was doubtful. "Christ knows where they are, but I'll have a go. The wife might know."

"Thanks. I gather you knew Maybury quite well."

"As well as I wanted to."

"What sort of man was he? What was his background?"

Paddy stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, dredging up memories. "Upper-middle-cla.s.s, I'd say. He was the son of an Army major who was killed during the war. I don't think David ever really knew his father but old Colonel Gallagher certainly did. I imagine that's why he let Phoebe's marriage go ahead, he thought the son would take after his father." His lips twisted into a cynical smile. "Fat chance. David was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d through and through. The story goes that when his mother died he had the choice of going to her funeral or going to the Derby. He chose the Derby because he had a fortune riding on the favourite."

"You didn't like him?"

Paddy accepted another cigarette. "He was a s.h.i.t-the kind who enjoys putting people down-but he kept me supplied with fairly decent plonk, plus he was one of my best customers. Bought all his beer from me and drank in here most nights." He took a deep inhalation of smoke. "n.o.body regretted his disappearance, except me. He left owing me over a hundred quid. I wouldn't have minded so much if I hadn't just settled my wine account with his blasted company."

"You say 'he left.' You don't think he was murdered?"

"I've no views on it. Left, murdered, same result. It doubled our trade overnight. With all the media coverage, Streech became quite famous. The ghouls dropped in here for local colour before setting off up to the hill to gawp through the Grange gates." He saw a look of distaste on the Constable's face and shrugged. "I'm a businessman. The same thing'll happen this time which is why the wife's gone to the Cash and Carry. Take my word for it, there'll be a horde of pressmen in here tonight. I pity those wretched women. They'll not be able to set foot outside their gates without being hounded."

"How well do you know them?"

A guarded expression came over the big man's face. "Well enough."

"Do you know anything about their lesbian activities?"

Paddy Clarke chuckled. "Who's been winding you up?" he asked.

"Several people have mentioned it," said Robinson mildly. "There's no truth in it then?"

"They've got minds like sewers," said Paddy with disgust. "Three women, living together, keeping themselves to themselves, minding their own business and tongues start to wag." He gave his derogatory snort again. "Two of them have kids. That hardly ties in with lesbianism."

"Anne Cattrell hasn't any and she admitted being a lesbian to a colleague of mine."

Paddy gave such a shout of laughter that he choked on the smoke.from his cigarette. "For your information," he said with watering eyes, "Anne could give Fiona Richmond lessons on s.e.x. 'Struth, man, she's had more lovers than you've had hot dinners. What's your colleague like? A pompous jerk, I'll bet. Anne would enjoy taking the p.i.s.s out of someone like that." DS Robinson refused to be drawn on the subject of Andy McLoughlin. "How come no one's mentioned this? Surely the people here would find promiscuity as t.i.tillating as lesbianism."

"Because she's discreet, for crying out loud. Do you c.r.a.p on your doorstep? Anyway, there's no one in this dump she'd give houseroom to." He spoke scathingly. "She prefers her men with brain as well as brawn."

"How do you know all this, Mr. Clarke?" Paddy glared at him.

"Never mind how I know. Confidential, you said, and confidential it is. I'm setting the record straight. There's enough bulls.h.i.t been talked about those women to fill a midden. You'll be telling me next they run a witches' coven. That's another favourite, with poor Fred cast in the role of satanic stallion because of his prison record."

"Confidentially, sir," said Robinson after a brief hesitation while he contemplated Fred Phillips in the role of satanic stallion, "I've heard from a number of sources that you might know something about several used condoms we've found near the ice house at the Grange."

Clarke, he thought, looked positively murderous. "What sources?"

"A number," said Robinson firmly, "but I'm not going to divulge them, just as I won't divulge anything you say to me without your permission. We're in the dark, sir. We need information."

"To h.e.l.l with information," said Paddy aggressively, thrusting his face close to Robinson's. "I'm a publican, not a b.l.o.o.d.y policeman. You're the one who's being paid. You do your own dirty work."

Ten years on the force had given Nick Robinson a certain wiliness. He tucked his pen into his jacket and got off the barstool. "That's your privilege, sir, but as things stand at the moment the finger's pointing at Mrs. Maybury and her friends. They seem to be the only ones with enough knowledge of the grounds to have hidden the body in the ice house. I'll guarantee that if we don't get more information, the three of them will be charged with conspiracy."

There was a long silence while the publican stared at the policeman. Robinson felt he ought to disapprove of Clarke-if Amy Ledbetter was right, the man was a highly s.e.xed stud-but instead he found himself liking him. Whatever his s.e.xual morality, the man looked you in the eye when he spoke to you.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it!" said Paddy suddenly, slamming a ma.s.sive fist on to the bar. "Sit down, man. I'll get you a beer, but if you ever breathe a word of this to my wife I'll string you up by your b.a.l.l.s."

McLoughlin was waiting at the entrance to the ice house when Walsh arrived with the plastic bag containing the shoes. "I was told you wanted to see me, sir."

Walsh removed his jacket and lowered himself on to the sun-baked ground, folding the jacket neatly beside him. "Sit down, Andy. I'm after a few quiet words away from the house. This whole d.a.m.ned thing's getting more complicated by the minute and I don't want any flapping ears around." He studied the Sergeant's drawn face with sudden irritability. "What's the matter with you?" he snapped. "You look terrible."

McLoughlin transferred his wallet and loose change from his rear trouser pockets and sat down at a short distance from his boss. "Nothing," he said, trying without success to find a comfortable position for his legs. He regarded the other man through half-closed lids. He could never decide whether he liked or disliked Walsh. The Inspector, for all his irascibility, could surprise with a kindness. But not today.

He looked across at Walsh and saw only an insignificant, skinny man, playing tough because the system allowed it. He was tempted to make the Inspector a free gift of his a.s.sault on Anne Cattrell that morning just to see his reaction. Would he bark? Or would he bite? Bark, McLoughlin thought with amused contempt. Walsh was no more able to face an unpleasantness than the next man. It would be different, of course, when she put in her written complaint. Then, the machinery of justice would roll and action would be as mechanical as it was inevitable. His certainty that this would happen lifted rather than depressed him. The cut would be clean and final, so much cleaner and so much more final than if he administered it himself. He even felt a stirring of anger against the woman that she hadn't delivered the blow already.

Walsh finished summarising the pathologist's report. "Well?" he demanded.

The shutter clicked maddeningly in McLoughlin's brain. He stared at Walsh with vacant eyes for a moment, then shook his head. "You say he's exploring the possibility of mutilation. He's not sure yet?"

Walsh snarled sarcastically. "Won't commit himself. Claims he hasn't enough experience of eaten bodies. But it's a d.a.m.ned odd rat that chews selectively on the only two fingers Maybury had missing."

"You'll have to tie Webster down on that," McLoughlin pointed out thoughtfully. "It makes a h.e.l.l of a difference to the case if there was no mutilation." Dreadful black-and-white footage of Mussolini's corpse, strung by its feet from a lamppost after an angry mob had emasculated it, floated into his mind. Violent, angry, hating faces, jeering their revenge. "A h.e.l.l of a difference," he said quietly.

"Why?"

"It's less likely to be Maybury."

"You're as bad as Webster," growled Walsh. "Jumping to b.l.o.o.d.y conclusions. Let me tell you, Andy, that body is more likely to be Maybury's than anyone else's. It is a statistical improbability that this house should be the centre of two unconnected police investigations in ten years, and it is a statistical probability, as I've said all along, that his wife murdered him."

"Even she couldn't murder him twice, sir. If she did it ten years ago, then it wasn't him in the ice house. If it was him in the ice house, then, by G.o.d, she's had a raw deal."

"She brought it on herself," said Walsh coldly.

"Maybe, but you've let Maybury grow into an obsession with you, and you can't expect the rest of us to chase red herrings just to prove a point"

Walsh poked around amongst the folds of his jacket for his pipe. He stuffed it in thoughtful silence. "I've got this gut feeling, Andy," he said at last, holding his lighter flame to the tobacco and puffing. "The moment I saw that mess yesterday, I knew. Found you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I said to myself." He looked up and caught McLoughlin's eye. "OK, OK, lad, I'm not a fool. I'm not about to tie you all down because of my gut feeling, but the fact remains that the blasted body is unidentifiable. And why? Because someone, somewhere, doesn't want it identified, that's why. Who took the clothes? Where are the dentures? Why no fingerprints? Oh, it's been mutilated all right, and it was as likely to be mutilated because it was Maybury as because it wasn't."

"So where do we go from here? Missing persons?"

"Checked. Our area, anyway. We'll go further afield if necessary, but on the evidence so far a local connection seems probable. We've one likely candidate. A Daniel Thompson from East Deller. The description matches very closely and he went missing around the time Webster thinks our man was killed." He nodded to the shoes in the plastic bag. "When he disappeared, he was wearing brown lace-ups. Jones found these in the woods adjoining the farm."

McLoughlin whistled through his teeth. "If they're his, is there anyone who can identify them?"

"A wife." Walsh watched McLoughlin push himself awkwardly to his feet. "Not so fast," he snapped petulantly. "Let's hear how you got on. You spoke to Miss Cattrell? Learn anything?"

McLoughlin plucked at the gra.s.s beside him. "The Phillipses' real name is Jefferson. They were sentenced to five years each for the murder of their lodger Ian Donaghue who b.u.g.g.e.red and killed their son. He was an only child, twelve years old, born when Mrs. Jefferson was forty. Miss Cattrell arranged their employment here." He looked up. "They're a possibility, sir. What they've done once, they might do again."

"Different MO. As far as I remember, they made no secret of Donaghue's execution, even carried out a mock trial in front of his girlfriend and hanged him when he confessed. She was a star witness in their defence, wasn't she? It doesn't square with this murder."

"Maybe," said McLoughlin, "but they've proved they're capable of murdering for revenge and they're pretty attached to Mrs. Maybury. We can't ignore it."

"Have you questioned them yet?"

McLoughlin winced. "Up to a point. I had her in after Miss Cattrell. It was like trying to prise information out of an oyster. She's a cantankerous old biddy." He pulled his notebook out of his shirt pocket and riffled through the pages. "She let slip one thing which struck me as interesting. I asked her if she was happy here. She said: 'The only difference between a fortress and a prison is that in a fortress the doors are locked on the inside.' "

"What's interesting about that?"

"Would you describe your house as a fortress?"

"She's senile." Walsh waved him on impatiently. "Any more?"

"Diana Goode has a daughter, Elizabeth, who spends odd weekends here. Aged nineteen, has a flat in London which was given her by her father, works as a croupier in one of the big West End casinos. She's a bit wild, or that's the impression her mother gave."

Walsh grunted.

"Phoebe Maybury has a licensed shotgun," McLoughlin continued, reading down his notes. "She's responsible for the spent cartridges. According to Fred, there's a colony of feral cats in and around Grange Farm which use his kitchen garden as their private bog. Mrs. Maybury scares them off with a blast from the shotgun but Fred claims she's rather lost interest lately, says it's like trying to hold back the tide."

"Anyone know anything about the condoms?"

McLoughlin raised a sardonic eyebrow. "No," he said with feeling. "But they all found it very amusing, at my expense. Fred said he's raked up quite a few in the past. I questioned him again about finding the body. His story's the same, no discrepancies." He ran through the sequence for Walsh's benefit.