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 threadbare 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 to
uch 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.
Chapter 8
When Anne entered the library the following morning she found McLoughlin standing by the window, gazing broodingly out over the gravel drive. He turned as she came in and she noticed the black rings of a sleepless night round his eyes and the telltale nicks of a clumsy shave on his neck and chin. He smelled of anger and frustration and yesterday's beer. He gestured for her to sit down, waited until she had done so, then settled himself in the chair behind the desk. Particles of dust shimmered and danced in the sunlight that shafted between them. They eyed each other with open dislike.
"I won't keep you long, Miss Cattrell. Chief Inspector Walsh will be here later and I know he has some questions to ask you. For the moment, I'd like to concentrate on the finding of the body and one or two related matters. Perhaps you could start by running through the events of yesterday afternoon, beginning with the arrival of the gardener."
Anne did as she was asked, knowing it would be a waste of time to point out that she had already done this the previous afternoon for PC Williams. From time to time she glanced at McLoughlin but looked away again when he refused to drop his gaze. There was a new awareness in his eyes which meant he was better informed about her. And how tiresome that was, she thought. Yesterday, he had despised her; today, he saw her as a challenge. With an inward sigh she began to prepare her defences.
"You don't know who he was, how he got there, or when. Had you seen inside the ice house before yesterday?"
"No."
"Then why did you tell us that you and Mrs. Goode had cleared the rubbish out of it six years ago?"
Anne had been well prepared for this by Diana. "Because it seemed like a good idea at the time." She fished a cigarette out of her pocket and lit it. "I wanted to save you time and trouble. You should be looking outside the Grange for your victim and your suspects. It's nothing to do with anyone here."
He was unimpressed. "It's never a good idea to tell lies to the police. With your experience you should know that."
"My experience?" she queried silkily.
"If you don't mind, we'll dispense with the word games, Miss Cattrell. It'll save a lot of time."
"You're quite right, of course," she agreed mildly. What a prig the man was!
His eyes narrowed. "Did you lie because you understood the significance of the ice house and the importance of knowing where it was?"
She was silent for a moment. "I certainly understood that you would consider it significant. You have yet to persuade me that it is. I share Mrs. Goode's view that its location is probably known to a number of people, or that chance played a part in the body's being there."
"We have found some used condoms in the area around the ice house," McLoughlin said, abruptly changing the subject. "Have you any idea who would have left them there?"
Anne grinned. "Well, it wasn't me, Sergeant. I don't use them."
He showed his irritation. "Have you had intercourse there with someone who does, Miss Cattrell?"
"What, with a man?" She gave her throaty chuckle. "Is that a very sensibl
e question to ask a lesbian?"
He gripped his knees tightly with trembling fingers as a sudden black rage hammered in his head. He felt terrible, his eyes smarting from lack of sleep, his mouth tasting foul. What a loathsome bloody bitch she was, he thought. He took a few shallow breaths and eased his hands on to the desk. They shook with a life of their own. "Have you?" he asked again.
She watched him closely. "No, I haven't," she answered calmly. "Nor, as far as I know, has anyone else in the house." She leaned forward and tapped the end of her cigarette against the side of an ashtray. He moved his hands to his lap.
"Perhaps you could clear up something that puzzles both Chief Inspector Walsh and myself," he continued. "We understand you and Mrs. Goode have been living here for several years. How is it neither of you has seen inside the ice house?"
"In the same way that most Londoners have never seen inside the Tower. One doesn't tend to explore things on one's own doorstep."
"Did you know of its existence?"
"I suppose so." She thought for a moment. "I must have done. I don't remember being surprised at Fred mentioning it."
"Did you know where it was?"
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