"Clever," said McLoughlin reluctantly. "She kept it simple, gave you nothing to pick holes in. So why didn't you charge her? Prosecutions have been brought without bodies before."
The memories of ten years ago flooded back to try Walsh's patience. "We couldn't put a case together," he snapped. "There wasn't one shred of evidence to dispute her bloody stupid story that he'd upped and left. We needed the body. We dug up half Hampshire looking for the blasted thing." He fell silent for a moment, then tapped the photograph of the ice house which lay on the desk in front of him. "You were right about this."
"In what way?"
"It is the key. We searched Streech gardens from end to end ten years ago and none of us looked in here. I'd never seen an ice house in my life, never even heard of such a thing. So of course I didn't know the bloody hill was hollow. How the hell could I? No one told me. I remember standing on it at one point to get my bearings. I even remember, telling one of my chaps to delve deep into those brambles. It was like a jungle." He wiped the stem of his pipe on his sleeve again before putting it back in his mouth. Dried tar criss-crossed the tweed like black threads. "I'll lay you any money you like, Andy, Maybury's body was in there all the time."
There was a knock at the door and Phoebe came in carrying a tray of sandwiches. "Constable Williams told me you were hungry, Inspector. I asked Molly to make these up for you."
"Why thank you, Mrs. Maybury. Come and sit down." Phoebe put the tray of sandwiches on the desk, then seated herself in a leather armchair slightly to one side of it. The lamp on the desk shed a pool of light, embracing the three figures in a reluctant intimacy. The smoke from Walsh's pipe hung above them, floating in the air like curling tendrils of cirrus clouds. For one long moment there was complete silence, before the chiming mechanism of a grandfather clock whirred into action and struck the hour, nine o'clock.
Walsh, as if on cue, leant forward and addressed the woman. "Why didn't you tell us about the ice house ten years ago, Mrs. Maybury?"
For a moment he thought she looked surprised, even a little relieved, then the expression vanished. Afterwards, he couldn't be sure it had been there at all. "I don't understand," she said.
Inspector Walsh gestured to McLoughlin to switch on the overhead lights. The muted lamplight disguised, deceived when he wanted to see every nuance of the extraordinarily impassive face. "It's quite simple," he murmured, after McLoughlin had flooded the room with brilliant white light, "in our search for your husband, we never looked in the ice house. We didn't know it was there." He studied her thoughtfully. "And you didn't tell us."
"I don't remember," she said simply. "If I didn't tell you, it was because I had forgotten about it. Did you not find it yourselves?"
"No."
She gave a tiny shrug. "Does it really matter, Inspector, after all this time?"
He ignored the question. "Do you recall when the ice house was last used prior to your husband's disappearance?"
She leant her head tiredly against the back of her chair, her red hair splaying out around her pale face. Behind her glasses her eyes looked huge. Walsh knew her to be in her mid-thirties, yet she looked younger than his own daughter. He felt McLoughlin stir in the seat beside him as if her fragility had touched him in some way. Damn the woman, he thought with irritation, remembering the emotions she had once stirred in him. That appearance of vulnerability was a thin cloak for the sharp mind beneath.
"You'll have to let me think about it," she said. "At the moment, I honestly can't remember if we ever used it when David was alive. I have no recollection of it." She paused briefly. "I do recall my father using it as a darkroom one winter when I was on holiday from school. He didn't do it for very long." She smiled. "He said it was a confounded bore slogging all the way down there in the cold." She gave a low ripple of laughter as if memories of her father made her happy. "He took the films to a professional in Silverborne instead. My mother said it was because he enjoyed blaming someone else when the prints were disappointing, which they often were. He wasn't a very good photographer." She looked steadily at the Inspector. "I can't remember its being used after that, not until we decided to stack the bricks in there. The children might know. I suppose I could ask them."
Walsh remembered her children, a gangling ten-year-old boy, arriving home from his boarding prep-school in the middle of the investigation, his eyes the same clear blue as his mother's, and an eight-year-old daughter with a bush of curling dark hair. They had protected her, he recalled, with the same fierce quality that her two friends had shown earlier in the drawing-room. "Jonathan and Jane," he said. "Do they still live at home, Mrs. Maybury?"
"Not really. Jonathan rents a flat in London. He's a medical student at Guy's. Jane is studying politics and philosophy at Oxford. They spend the odd weekend and holidays here. That's all."
"They've done well. You must be pleased." He thought sourly of his own daughter who had got herself pregnant at sixteen and who now, at the age of twenty-five, was divorced with four children, and had nothing to look forward to except life in a tatty council flat. He consulted his notes. "You seem to have acquired a profession since I last saw you, Mrs. Maybury. Constable Williams tells me you're a market gardener."
Phoebe seemed puzzled by his change of direction. "Fred's helped me build up a small Pelargonium nursery." She spoke warily. "We specialise in the Ivyleaf varieties."
"Who buys them?"
"We have two main customers in this country, one's a supermarket chain and the other's a garden-supplies outlet in Devon and Cornwall. We've also had a few bulk orders from the States which we've air-freighted out." She was intensely suspicious of him. "Why do you want to know?"
"No particular reason," he assured her. He sucked noisily on his pipe. "I expect you get a lot of customers from the village."
"None," she said shortly. "We don't sell direct to the public and, anyway, they wouldn't come here if we did."
"You're not very popular in Streech, are you, Mrs. Maybury?"
"So it would seem, Inspector."
"You worked as a receptionist in the doctor's surgery ten years ago. Didn't you like that job?"
A flicker of amusement lifted the corners of her mouth. "I was asked to leave. The patients felt uncomfortable with a murderess."
"Did your husband know about the ice house?" He shot the question at her suddenly, unnerving her.
"That it was there, you mean?"
He nodded.
"I'm sure he must have done, though, as I say, I don't remember him ever going in there."
Walsh made a note. "We'll follow that up. The children may remember something. Will they be here this weekend, Mrs. Maybury?"
She felt cold. "I suppose if they don't come down, you'll send a policeman to them."
"It's important."
There was a tremor in her voice. "Is it, Inspector? You have our word there was no body in there six years ago. What possible connection can that-that thing have with David's disappearance?" She took off her glasses and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. "I don't want the children harassed. They suffered enough when David went missing. To have the whole ghastly trauma played out a second time and for no obvious reason would be intolerable."
Walsh smiled indulgently. "Routine questions, Mrs. Maybury. Hardly very traumatic, surely?"
She put her glasses on again, angered by his response. "You were extraordinarily stupid ten years ago, of course. Why I ever assumed the passage of time would make you any brighter, I can't think. You sent us to hell and you call it 'hardly traumatic.' Do you know what hell is? Hell is what a little girl of eight goes through when the police dig up all the flowerbeds and question her mother for hours on end in a closed room. Hell is what is in your young son's eyes when his father deserts him without a word of explanation and his mother is accused of murder. Hell is seeing your children hurting and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it. You asked me if I was pleased with their achievements." She leaned forward, her face twist
ed. "Surely even you could have come up with something a little more imaginative? They have lived through the mysterious disappearance of their father, their mother being branded a murderess, their home being turned into a tourist attraction for the ghoulish and they have survived it relatively unscathed. I think 'ecstatic' might be a better description of how I feel about the way they've turned out."
"We suggested at the time you should send the children away, Mrs Maybury." Walsh kept his voice carefully neutral. "You chose to keep them here against our advice."
Phoebe stood up. It was only the second time he had ever seen any violent emotion on that face. "My God, I hate you." She put her hands on the desk and he saw that the fingers trembled uncontrollably. "Where was I to send them? My parents were dead, I had no brothers or sisters, neither Anne nor Diana was in a position to care for them. Was I supposed to entrust them to strangers when their own secure world was turning upside down?" She thought of her only relation, her father's unmarried sister, who had fallen out with the family years before. The old lady had read between every line of every newspaper with voracious delight and had penned her own small piece of poison to Phoebe on the subject of the sins of the parents. What her intentions were in writing the letter was anyone's guess but, in a strange way, her warped predictions for Jonathan and Jane had been a liberation for Phoebe. She had seen clearly then-and for the first time-that the past was dead and buried and that regrets would achieve her nothing.
"How dare you speak to me of choice! My only choice was to smile while you shat on me and never once let the children know how frightened and alone I felt." Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk. "I will not go through all that again. I will not allow you to stick your dirty fingers into my children's lives. You've spread your filthy muck here once. You're bloody well not going to do it again." She turned away and walked to the door.
"I've some more questions for you, Mrs. Maybury. Please don't go."
She looked round briefly as she opened the door. "Fuck off, Inspector." The door slammed behind her.
McLoughlin had listened to their exchange with rapt attention. "Bit of a sea-change from this afternoon. Is she always as volatile?"
"Quite the reverse. Ten years ago we never rattled her composure once." He sucked thoughtfully on his filthy briar.
"It's those two dykes she's shacked up with. They've turned her against men."
Walsh was amused. "I should think David Maybury did that years ago. Let's talk to Mrs. Goode. Will you go and find her?"
McLoughlin reached for a sandwich and crammed it into his mouth before standing up. "What about the other one? Shall I line her up too?"
The Chief Inspector thought for a moment. "No. She's a dark horse, that one. I'll let her stew till I've checked up on her."
From where he was standing, McLoughlin could see pink scalp shining through Walsh's thinning hair. He felt a sudden tenderness for the older man, as if Phoebe's hostility had exorcised his own and reminded him where his loyalties lay. "She's your most likely suspect, sir. She'd have enjoyed cutting that poor sod's balls off. The other two would have hated it."
"You're probably right, lad, but I'm betting he was dead when she did it."
Chapter 5
Streech Grange was a fine old Jacobean mansion built of grey stone, with mullioned, leaded windows and steep slate roofs. Two wings, later additions, extended out at either end of the main body of the house, embracing the sides of the flagged terrace where the women had taken their tea. Stud partitions inside made each of these wings self-contained, with unlocked doors on the ground floor giving access to and from them. Sergeant McLoughlin, after a fruitless search of the drawing-room and the kitchen which were both empty, came to the communicating door with the east wing. He tapped lightly but, getting no response, turned the handle and walked down the corridor in front of him.
A door stood ajar at the end. He could hear a deep voice-unmistakably Anne Cattrell's-coming from inside the room. He listened.
"…stick to your guns and don't let the bastards intimidate you. God knows, I've had more experience of them than most. Whatever happens, Jane must be kept out of the way. You agree?" There was a murmur of assent. "And, old love, if you can wipe the smirk off that Sergeant's face, you'll have my lifelong admiration."
"I suppose it's occurred to you"-the lighter amused voice was Diana's—"that he might have been born with that smirk. Perhaps it's a disability he's had to learn to cope with, like a withered arm. You'd be quite sympathetic if that were the case."
Anne gave her throaty laugh. "The only disabilities that idiot has are both in his trousers."
"Namely?"
"He's a prick and an arsehole."
Diana crowed with laughter and McLoughlin felt a dull flush creep up his neck. He trod softly to the communicating door, closed it behind him and knocked again, this time more loudly. When, after some moments, Anne opened the door, he was ready with his most sardonic smile.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"I'm looking for Mrs. Goode. Inspector Walsh would like a word with her."
"This is my wing. She's not here."
The lie was so blatant that he looked at her in astonishment. "But—" He paused.
"But what, Sergeant?"
"Where will I find her?"
"I've no idea. Perhaps the Inspector would like to speak to me instead?"
McLoughlin pushed past her impatiently and walked down the corridor and into the room. There was no one in there. He frowned. The room was a large one with a desk at one end and a sofa and armchairs grouped about a wide fireplace at the other. Pot plants grew in profusion everywhere, cascading like green waterfalls from the mantelpiece, climbing up lattice-work on one of the walls, dappling the light from the lamps on low occasional tables. Floor to ceiling curtains in a herringbone pattern of pale pinks, greys and blues were drawn along the length of the two outside walls, a royal blue carpet covered the floor, bright abstract paintings laughed merrily from the picture rails. Books in bookcases stood as straight as soldiers wherever there was a space. It was a delightful room, not one that McLoughlin would ever have associated with the tiny muscular woman who had followed him in and was now leaning her cropped, dark head against the door-jamb, waiting.
"Do you make a habit of forcing your way into people's private apartments, Sergeant? I have no recollection of inviting you in."
"We have Mrs. Maybury's permission to come and go as we please," he said dismissively.
She walked over to one of the armchairs and slumped into it, taking a cigarette from a packet on the arm. "Of course, in her house," she agreed, lighting the cigarette. "But this wing is mine. You have no authority to enter here except by permission or with a warrant."
"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, towering over her, conspicuously ill-at-ease while she, by contrast, was relaxed. "I was not aware you owned this part of the house."
"I don't own it, I rent it, but the legal position with regard to police entry is the same." She smiled thinly. "As a matter of interest, what possible reason had you for thinking Mrs. Goode might be in here?"
He saw one of the curtain edges lift as a gentle breeze caught it, and realised Diana must have left by a French window. He cursed himself silently for allowing this woman to make a mockery of him. "I couldn't find her anywhere else," he said brusquely, "and Inspector Walsh wants to speak to her. Does she live in the other wing?"
"She rents the other wing. As to living in it-surely you've guessed we all three rather muck in together. It's what's known as a menage a tross, though in our case, rather loosely. The average threesome includes both sexes. We, I'm afraid, are more exclusive, preferring, as we do, our peculiarly-how shall I describe it?-spicy female sex. Three makes for more exciting encounters than two, don't you think. Or have you never tried?"
His dislike of her was irrational and intense. He jerked his head in the direction of the main part of the house. "Have you corrupted her children the way you've co
rrupted her?"
She laughed softly and stood up. "You'll find Mrs. Goode in her sitting-room, I expect. I'll show you out." She led the way along her corridor and opened the door. "Walk straight through the main body of the house until you reach the west wing. It's a mirror image of this. You'll find a similar door to mine leading into it." She pointed to a bell on the wall which he hadn't previously noticed. "I should ring that if I were you. At the very least, it would be polite." She stood watching him as he walked away, a scornful smile distorting her lips.
Andy McLoughlin had to pass the library door to reach the west wing so he looked in to tell Walsh it would be a few minutes yet before he returned with Diana Goode. To his surprise, she was in there already, sitting in the chair Phoebe had sat in. She and the Inspector turned their heads as the door opened. They were laughing together like people sharing a private joke.
"There you are, Sergeant. We've been waiting for you."
He took his seat again and viewed Diana with suspicion. "How did you know the Inspector wanted to talk to you?" He pictured her outside the French windows listening to Anne Cattrell making a fool of him.
"I didn't, Sergeant. I popped my head in to see if you wanted a cup of coffee." She smiled good-humouredly and crossed one elegant leg over the other. "What did you want to talk to me about, Inspector?"
There was an appreciative gleam in George Walsh's eye. "How long have you known Mrs. Maybury?" he asked her.
"Twenty-five years. Since we were twelve. We were at boarding school together. Anne, too."
"A long time."
"Yes. We've known her longer than anyone else, I suppose, longer even than her parents did. They died when she was in her early twenties." She came to a halt. "But you know all about that from last time," she finished awkwardly.
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