Ice House

by Walters, Minette

  To the consternation of her friends, who could feel the vibrations of her anger, Anne rose recklessly to the challenge. "My, my, Sergeant, what have you been hearing about us?" She lifted a sardonic eyebrow then deliberately wiped her fingers down her Levis. "You're scarcely off your mother's breast, so won't have been around the last time the Grange was the centre of police attention. Let me guess now. Our reputation—" she indicated herself and the other two women—"has preceded us. Which of our widely talked-about activities upsets you the most, I wonder? Child abuse, witchcraft or lesbianism?" She searched his face with scornful eyes. "Lesbianism," she murmured. "Yes, you would find that the most threatening but, then, it's the only one that's true, isn't it?"

  McLoughlin's temper, already fired by the heat of the day, nearly erupted. He breathed deeply. "I've nothing against dykes, Miss Cattrell," he said evenly. "I just wouldn't stick my finger in one, that's all."

  Diana stubbed out her cigarette with rather more violence than was necessary. "Don't tease the poor man, Anne," she said dryly. "He's going to need all his wits to sort out the mess in the ice house."

  Stiffly, Phoebe took the seat nearest her and gestured the others to sit down. Walsh sat in the chair opposite her, Anne and Diana on the sofa, leaving McLoughlin to perch on a delicate tapestry stool. His discomfort, as he folded his long legs awkwardly beneath him, was obvious to all.

  "Take care you don't break that, Sergeant," snapped Walsh. "I don't like clumsiness any more than the housekeeper does. Well now, Mrs. Maybury, perhaps you'd like to tell us why you called us out."

  "I thought Mrs. Goode explained it on the telephone."

  He fished a piece of paper from his pocket. " 'Body in ice house, Streech Grange. Discovered at 4:35 p.m.' Not much of an explanation, is it? Tell me what happened."

  "That's it, really. Fred Phillips, my gardener, found the body about that time and came and told us. Diana phoned you while Fred took Anne and me to look at it."

  "So you've seen it?"

  "Yes."

  "Who is it? Do you know?"

  "The body's unrecognisable."

  With an abrupt movement, Anne lit another cigarette. "It's putrid, Inspector, black, disgusting. No one would know who it was." She spoke impatiently, her deep voice clipping the words short.

  Walsh nodded. "I see. Did your gardener suggest you look at the body?"

  Phoebe shook her head. "No, he suggested I shouldn't. I insisted on going."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged. "Natural curiosity, I suppose. Wouldn't you have gone?"

  He was silent for a moment. "Is it your husband, Mrs. Maybury?"

  "I've already told you the body is unrecognisable."

  "Did you insist on going because you thought it might be your husband?"

  "Of course. But I've realised since it couldn't possibly be."

  "Why is that?"

  "It was something Fred said. He reminded me that we stored some bricks in the ice house about six years ago when we demolished an old outhouse. David had been gone four years by that time."

  "His body was never found. We never traced him," Walsh reminded her. "Perhaps he came back."

  Diana laughed nervously. "He couldn't come back, Inspector. He's dead. Murdered."

  "How do you know, Mrs. Goode?"

  "Because he'd have been back long before this if he wasn't. David always knew which side his bread was buttered."

  Walsh crossed his legs and smiled. "The case is still open. We've never been able to prove he was murdered."

  Diana's face was suddenly grim. "Because you concentrated all your energies on trying to pin the murder on Phoebe. You gave up when you couldn't prove it. You never made any attempt to ask me for a list of suspects. I could have given you a hundred likely names; Anne could have given you another hundred. David Maybury was the most out-and-out bastard who ever lived. He deserved to die." She wondered if she had overdone it and glanced briefly at Phoebe. "Sorry, love, but if more people had said it ten years ago, things might have been less hard for you."

  Anne nodded agreement. "You'll waste a lot of time if you think that thing out there is David Maybury." She stood up and walked over to sit on the arm of Phoebe's chair. "For the record, Inspector, both Diana and I helped clear years of accumulated rubbish out of the ice house before Fred stacked the bricks in it. There were no corpses in there six years ago. Isn't that right, Di?"

  Diana looked amused and inclined her head. "It wouldn't have been the place to look for him, anyway. He's at the bottom of the sea somewhere, food for crabs and lobsters." She looked at McLoughlin. "Are you partial to crabs, Sergeant?"

  Walsh intervened before McLoughlin could say anything. "We followed up every known contact or associate Mr. Maybury had. There was no evidence to connect any of them with his disappearance."

  Anne tossed her cigarette into the fireplace. "Balls!" she exclaimed amiably. "I'll tell you something, you never questioned me either and in my list of a hundred possible suspects I should have featured in the top ten."

  "You're quite mistaken, Miss Cattrell." Inspector Walsh was unruffled. "We went into your background very thoroughly. At the time of Mr. Maybury's disappearance, in fact throughout most of our investigation, you were camped with your lady friends on Greenham Common under the eyes not only of the guards at the American Air Force base but also of the Newbury police and assorted television cameras. It was quite an alibi."

  "You're right. I'd forgotten. Touche, Inspector." She chuckled. "I was researching a feature for one of the colour supplements." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw McLoughlin's lips thin to a disapproving line. "But, hell, it was fun," she went on in a dreamy voice. "That camp is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

  Frowning, Phoebe laid a restraining hand on her arm and stood up. "This is all irrelevant. Until you've examined the body, it seems to me quite pointless to speculate on whether or not it's David's. If you care to come with me, gentlemen, I will show you where it is."

  "Let Fred do it," Diana protested.

  "No. He's had enough shocks for one day. I'm all right. Could you make sure Molly's organising the tea?"

  She opened the French windows and led the way on to the terrace. Benson and Hedges roused themselves from the warm flagstones and pushed their noses into her hand. Hedges's fur was still fluffy from his bath. She paused to stroke his head gently and pull his ears. "There's one thing I really ought to tell you, Inspector," she said.

  Anne, watching from inside the drawing-room, gave a gurgle of laughter. "Phoebe's confessing to Hedges's little peccadillo and the Sergeant's turned green around the gills."

  Diana pushed herself out of the sofa and walked towards her. "Don't underestimate him, Anne," she said. "You're such a fool sometimes. Why do you always have to antagonise people?"

  "I don't. I simply refuse to kowtow to their small-minded conventions. If they feel antagonised that's their problem. Principles should never be compromised. The minute they are, they cease to be principles."

  "Maybe, but you don't have to shove them down reluctant throats. A little common sense wouldn't come amiss at the moment. We do have a dead body on the premises. Or had you forgotten?" Her voice was more anxious than ironic.

  Anne turned away from the window. "You're probably right," she agreed meekly.

  "So you'll be careful?"

  "I'll be careful."

  Diana frowned. "I do wish I understood you. I never have, you know."

  Affection surged in Anne as she studied her friend's worried face. Poor old Di, she thought, how she hated all this. She should never have come to Streech. Her natural environment was an ivory tower where visitors were vetted and unpleasantness unheard of. "You have no problem understanding me," she pointed out lightly, "you have a problem agreeing with me. My petty anarchies offend your sensibilities. I often wonder why you go along with them."

  Diana walked to the door. "Which reminds me, next time you want me to lie for you, warn me first, will you? I'm n
ot as good at controlling my facial muscles as you are."

  "Nonsense," said Anne, dropping into an armchair. "You're the most accomplished liar I know."

  Diana paused with her hand on the doorknob. "Why do you say that?" she asked sharply.

  "Because," Anne teased her rigid back, "I was there when you told Lady Weevil that her choice of colours for her drawing-room was sophisticated. Anyone who could do that with a straight face must have unlimited muscle control."

  "Lady Keevil," corrected Diana, looking round with a smile. "I should never have let you come with me. That contract was worth a fortune."

  Anne was unrepentant. "I needed the lift and you can hardly blame me if I got her name wrong. Everything she said sounded as if it had been squeezed through a wet flannel. Anyway, I did you a favour. Cherry-red carpets and lime-green curtains, for God's sake! Think of your reputation."

  "You know her father was a fruit wholesaler."

  "You do surprise me," said Anne dryly.

  Chapter 3

  Inside the ice house Chief Inspector Walsh firmly suppressed a slight movement in his bowels. Sergeant McLoughlin showed less control. He ran out of the building and was sick in the nettles alongside it. Unaware that she would have sympathised, he was thankful that Phoebe Maybury had returned to the Grange and was not there to see him.

  "Not very nice, is it?" remarked Walsh when the Sergeant came back. "Careful where you're stepping. There are bits all over the place. Must have been where the dog disturbed it."

  McLoughlin held a handkerchief to his mouth and retched violently. There was a strong smell of beer about him, and the Inspector eyed him with disfavour. A man of moods himself, he found inconsistency in others unendurable. He knew McLoughlin as well as any of the men he worked with, thought of him as a conscientious type, honest, intelligent, dependable. He even liked the man-he was one of the few who could cope with the notorious pendulum-swings of Walsh's temperament-but to see McLoughlin's weaknesses, disclosed like guilty secrets, irritated Walsh. "What the hell's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Five minutes ago you couldn't even be civil, now you're puking like a bloody baby."

  "Nothing, sir."

  "Nothing, sir," mimicked Walsh savagely. He would have said more but there was an anger about the younger man that stilled his waspish tongue. With a sigh he took McLoughlin's arm and pushed him outside. "Get me a photographer and some decent lights-it's impossible to see properly. And tell Dr. Webster to get down here as fast as he can. I left a message for him so he should be at the Station by now." He patted the Sergeant's arm clumsily, remembering perhaps that McLoughlin was more often his supporter than his detractor. "If it's any consolation, Andy, I've never seen anything as nasty as this."

  As McLoughlin returned thankfully to the house, Inspector Walsh took a pipe from his pocket, filled it and lit it thoughtfully, then began a careful examination of the ground and the brambles around the door and pathway. The ground itself told him little. The summer had been an exceptional one and the last four weeks of almost perpetual sunshine had baked it hard. The only visible tracks were where feet, probably Fred's, had trampled the weeds and grass in front of the brambles. Previous tracks, if any, had long since been obliterated. The brambles might prove more interesting. It was evident, if there were no other entrance to the ice house, that the body had at some point traversed this thorny barrier, either alive on its own two legs or dead on the back of someone else's. The big question was, how long ago? How long had that nightmare been in there?

  He walked slowly round the hillock. It would, of course, have been easier to satisfy himself that the door was the only entrance from inside the structure. He excused his reluctance to do this on the basis of not wishing to disturb the evidence more than was necessary but, being honest, he knew it was an excuse. The grisly tomb held no attractions for a man alone, even for a policeman intent on discovering the truth.

  He spent some time investigating round the base of an untamed laurel which grew at the back of the ice house, using a discarded bamboo stake to stir up the leaf mould which had collected there. His efforts uncovered only solid brickwork, which looked strong enough to withstand another two hundred years of probing roots. In those days, he thought, they built to last.

  He sat back orr his heels for a moment, puffing on his pipe, then resumed his search, poking his stick at intervals into the nettles at the base of the ice-house roof but finding no other obvious points of weakness. He returned to the door and a closer examination of the brambles.

  He was no gardener, he relied on his wife to tend their small patio garden where everything grew neatly in tubs, but even to his uneducated eye the brambles had a look of permanence. He spent some moments peering thoughtfully at the clods of earth and grass above the doorway, where roots had been torn free in handfuls, then, careful to avoid the grass which had been trodden on, he squatted beside the area of brambles which had been scythed and trampled flat. The broken stems were green with sap, most of the fruit was still unripe but the odd blackberry, more mature than its fellows, showed black and juicy amidst the ruins of its parent. With the end of the bamboo he carefully lifted the flattened mass of vegetation nearest to him and peered beneath it.

  "Found anything, sir?" McLoughlin had returned.

  "Look under here, Andy, and tell me what you see."

  McLoughlin knelt obligingly beside his superior and stared where Walsh was pointing. "What am I looking for?"

  "Stems with old breaks in them. We are safe in assuming our body didn't pole vault over this little lot."

  McLoughlin shook his head. "We'd have to take the brambles apart for that, bit by bit, and I doubt we'd have much joy even then. Whoever flattened them did a thorough job."

  Walsh lowered the vegetation and removed the bamboo. "The gardener, according to Mrs. Maybury."

  "Looks as if he's put a steam-roller over it."

  "It's interesting, isn't it?" Walsh stood up. "Did you get hold of Webster?"

  "He's on his way, should be here in ten minutes. I've told the others to wait for him. Nick Robinson's already laid on the lights and the camera, so the gardener's showing them all down here once Webster arrives. Except young Williams. I've left him in the house to take background statements and keep his eyes open. He's a sharp lad. If there's anything to see, he'll see it."

  "Good. The mortuary van?"

  "On stand-by at the station."

  Walsh moved a few yards away and sat down on the grass. "We'll wait. There's nothing to be done until the photographs have been taken." He blew a cloud of smoke out of the side of his mouth and squinted through it at McLoughlin. "What is a nude corpse doing in Mrs Maybury's ice house, Sergeant? And what or, perhaps, who, has been eating it?"

  With a groan, McLoughlin reached for his handkerchief.

  PC Williams had taken statements from Mrs. Maybury, Mrs. Goode and Miss Cattrell and was now with Molly Phillips in the kitchen. For some reason that he couldn't understand, she was being deliberately obstructive and he thought with irritation that his colleagues had a knack of landing themselves the decent jobs. With ill-disguised satisfaction they had set off down the garden with Fred Phillips and the new arrivals and their assorted paraphernalia. Williams, who had seen Andy McLoughlin's face when he came up from the ice house, was consumed with curiosity as to what was down there. McLoughlin's nerves were sprung with Scottish steel, and he had looked as sick as a dog.

  Reluctantly Constable Williams returned to the job in hand. "So the first you knew about his body was when Mrs. Goode came in to telephone?"

  "What if it was?"

  He looked at her in exasperation. "Do you always answer questions with questions?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. That's my business."

  He was only a lad, the sort that people looked at and said: Policemen are getting younger. He tried a wheedling approach that had worked for him on a couple of occasions in the past. "Listen, Ma—"

  "Don't you 'Ma' me," she spat at him viciously. "You're
no son of mine. I don't have kids." She turned her back on him and busied herself slicing carrots into a saucepan. "You should be ashamed of yourself. What would your mother say? She's the only one you've a right to call Ma like that."

  Frustrated old cow, he thought. He looked at the thin, drooping shoulders and reckoned her problem was that her old man had never given her a proper working over. "I don't even know who she is."

  She was still for a moment, knife poised in mid-air, then went on with her slicing. She said nothing.

  Williams tried another tack. "All I'm doing, Mrs. Phillips, is getting some background details on the discovery of the body. Mrs. Goode has told me she came into the house to make the telephone call to us. She said you were in the hall when she made it and that afterwards she went down to the cellar to get some brandy because there was none left on the sideboard. Is that right?"

  "If Mrs. Goode says it is, that's enough for you. There's no need to come sneaking round here behind her back trying to find out if she's telling lies."

  He looked at her sharply. "Is she telling lies?"

  "No, she's not. The very idea."

  "Then what's all the mystery?" he asked her angry back. "What are you being so secretive about?"

  She rounded on him. "Don't you take that tone with me. I know your sort. None better. You'll not browbeat me." She whisked the teacup from under his nose where he sat at the table and dumped it unceremoniously in her washing-up bowl. He could have sworn there were tears in her eyes.

  The police photographer picked his way gingerly out of the doorway and lifted the camera strap over his neck. "Finished, sir," he told Walsh.

  The Chief Inspector placed a hand on his shoulder. "Good man. Back to the Station with you then and get that film developed." He turned to the pathologist. "Shall we go in, Webster?"

  Dr. Webster smiled grimly. "Do I have a choice?"