He looked at her, saw the amused lift of her lips and laughed. "I damn nearly did. You're winding me up."
"No," she said with a smile, "I'm winding you down. Life is pure farce from beginning to end, with a little black comedy thrown in for shade. If it was anything else, mankind would have stuck his collective head in the gas oven years ago. No one could tolerate seventy years of tragedy. When I die—probably of cancer—Jane has promised to put on my tombstone: 'Here lies Anne Cattrell who laughed her way through it. The joke was on her but at least she knew it.' She tossed another apple into the air and caught it. "In a couple of weeks, if you last the pace, you could be as cynical as I am, McLoughlin. You'll be a happy man, my son."
He sat down with the apple clenched between his teeth and drew his briefcase towards him. "You're not all cynic," he said, speaking round the apple.
She smiled. "What makes you say that?"
"I've read your diary." He snapped the locks on the briefcase, half-opened it and withdrew the slim volume.
She watched him curiously. "Did you enjoy it?"
"Was I supposed to?"
"No," she said tartly. "I didn't write it for publication."
"Good thing too," he said frankly. "It needs editing to make it readable."
She glared at him. "You would know, I suppose?" She was incredibly hurt. Her writing, even the writing she did for herself, mattered to her.
"I can read."
"I can hold a paintbrush. That doesn't make me an expert on art." She looked pointedly at her watch. "Shouldn't you be trying to solve a murder? As far as I can see you're still no nearer finding out who the body belongs to or, for that matter, who hit me on the head." She couldn't give a damn what he thought, he was only a policeman, so why did her stomach feel as if it had just bounced off the floor?
He munched on his apple. "P. needs editing out," he told her. "P. ruins it." He flicked the diary into her lap. "The carving-knife is still at the Station, awaiting your signature. I rescued this early on to prevent Friar sneaking it out to photocopy the rude bits." He was sitting with his back to the windows and his eyes, shadowed, gave nothing away. She couldn't tell if he was joking.
"Pity. Friar might have appreciated it."
"Tell me about P., Anne."
She eyed him cautiously. "What do you want to know?"
"Would he have attacked you?"
"No."
"Sure? Perhaps he's the jealous type. It was one of his Special Brew bottles that was used to hit you, and I'm told he never lets them out of the pub."
She could deny that P. and Paddy were one—the prospect of McLoughlin meeting the P. he had read about rather appalled her—but that would be coy, and Anne was never coy. "I'm positive," she said. "Have you spoken to him?"
"Not yet. We only got confirmation of the forensic results this morning." The match on Anne's blood and hair proved the bottle was the weapon, but the other results were disappointing. A smudged set of fingerprints round the neck and an incomplete footprint built up from barely seen depressions in the ground. It wasn't enough to take them any further. Anne wished she knew what he was thinking. Was he a harsh judge? Would he ever understand how Paddy, just because he always came back, however irregularly, made Streech bearable? Somehow she doubted it, for, in spite of his strange attraction to her, McLoughlin was a conventional man. The attraction wouldn't last, she knew that. Sooner or later he would snap back into character and then she would be remembered only as a brief madness. And for Anne, there would be just Paddy, once again, to remind her that the walls of Streech Grange were not totally impenetrable. Tired tears pricked at the back of her eyes. "He's a kind man," she said, "and he understands everything."
If McLoughlin understood, he didn't show it. He left without saying goodbye.
Paddy was hefting empty beer barrels at the rear of the pub. He eyed McLoughlin thoughtfully as he swung another barrel effortlessly atop the pile. "Can I help you?"
"Detective Sergeant McLoughlin, Silverborne Police." Imagination had created in McLoughlin's mind a huge, muscular Adonis with the magnetic attraction of the North Pole and the brain of Einstein. The reality was a big, rather overweight, hairy man in a tatty jumper and seated trousers. The jealous fire dimmed perceptibly in McLoughlin's belly. He showed Paddy a photograph of the stone beer bottle, taken after its removal from the undergrowth. "Do you recognise it?"
Paddy squinted briefly at the picture. "Maybe."
"I'm told you bottle your Special in it."
For a moment they scented the air suspiciously like two powerful mongrels poised to defend their territory. Then Paddy chose to back off. He shrugged good-humouredly. "OK, yes, it looks like one of mine," he said, "but it's a hobby. I'm writing a book on traditional beer-making methods to make damn sure the old ways aren't forgotten." His gaze was level and without guile. "I host the odd tasting session where I give it away to the locals to get their opinions." He studied the other's dark face, looking for a reaction. "All right, so I may have asked for a donation from time to time towards my costs. That's not unreasonable, it's an expensive hobby." He found the other's silence irritating. "Dammit, man, haven't your lot got more important things to exercise your minds at the moment? Who gave it to you anyway? I'll skin the bastard."
"Is it true you never let these bottles out of the pub, Mr. Clarke?" McLoughlin asked coldly.
"Yes, it's true, and I'd bloody well like to get my hands on the bugger who took it. Who was it?"
McLoughlin tapped the black stain round the bottom of the monochrome bottle. "That's blood, Mr. Clarke, Miss Cattrell's blood."
The big man became very still. "What the hell is this?"
"It's the weapon that was useid to beat a woman's skull in. I thought you might know how it found its way into her garden."
Paddy opened his mouth to say something, then sank abruptly on to the nearest barrel. "Jesus Christ! Those bottles weigh a ton. I heard she was all right, but Jesus!"
"How did the bottle get into her garden, Mr. Clarke?"
Paddy took no notice. "Robinson said she'd had a knock on the head. I thought it was concussion. Those bloody wankers keep calling it concussion."
"What wankers?"
"Journalists."
"Someone fractured her skull."
Paddy stared at the ground. "Is she all right?"
"They used one of your bottles to do it."
"Goddammit, man, I asked you a question." He surged to his feet and stared angrily into McLoughlin's face. "Is she all right?"
"Yes. But why are you so interested? Did you hit her harder than you meant to?"
Anger flared briefly in Paddy's face. He glanced towards the kitchen door to make sure it was closed. He lowered his voice. "You're on the wrong track. Anne's a friend of mine. We go back a long way. She'll tell you I wouldn't hurt her."
"It was dark. Perhaps you thought it was Mrs. Goode or Mrs. Maybury."
"Don't be a fool, man. I go back a long way with them, too. Hell, they're all friends of mine."
McLoughlin's mouth dropped open. "All three of them?"
"Yes."
"You're telling me you sleep with all three of them?"
Paddy made damping gestures with his hands. "Keep your voice down for God's sake. Who said anything about sleeping with anybody? It's damn lonely up there. I keep each one company from time to time, that's all."
McLoughlin shook with laughter as the jealous flame spluttered and died. "Do they know?"
Paddy sensed the lack of hostility and grinned. "I don't know. It's not the sort of thing you ask, is it?" He made a snap judgement. "Will your conscience allow you a bottle of Special? We might as well drink it before Customs and Excise get their miserable paws on it. And while we're enjoying it, I'll give you a list of all my Special customers. I never let strangers near it, so I know each customer personally. 'The bastard you're looking for has to be one of them, and I rather think I know who it is. There's only one person in this village who's stupid enough and v
indictive enough." He led McLoughlin across the yard and into the room behind the garage where the rich smell of fermenting malt tingled in the nose. "To tell you the truth, I've often toyed with the idea of doing the thing properly and going into full legal production. Maybe this is the push I needed. The wife can take over the pub licence, she's a far better landlord than I am." He took two unopened bottles, removed the clamped rubber stoppers and with immense care poured a deep amber liquid with a foaming white head into two straight-sided glasses. He handed one to McLoughlin. "Be advised by me, Sergeant." There was a twinkle in his eye. "You have all the time in the world, so approach it the way you approach your women. Slowly, lovingly, patiently, and with infinite respect. Because if you don't, you'll be flat on the floor within three mouthfuls, wondering what hit you."
"Is that your secret?"
"It is."
McLoughlin raised his glass. "Cheers."
The letter was waiting on Detective Sergeant Robinson's desk when he arrived that morning. The handwriting on the envelope was childish and unformed, the postmark local. He ripped it open eagerly and spread the lined paper flat on the desk in front of him. The lines were covered in the same unformed script, a rambling, hard-to-read account of a bizarre happening one night in the middle of May. Eddie Staines, anonymously, had come up trumps.
You been asking about a woman when and so forth. It were a Sunday. Know that becos my girls relijus and took some purswading becos she'd been to comunion. Must of been May 14 as May 12 is my birthday and it was by way of a late present. We did it in Grange woods as per normal. We left after 12 and wolked along the wall by the farm. We heard this waleing and weeping on the other side. My girl wanted to beet it but I hopped up for a look. Well you got it rang see. It was a man not a woman and he was rocking about and banging his head. Mad as a hatter if you ask me. I shone the torch on him and said was he all write. He said fuck off so I did. I seen the descripshun of the dead bloke. Sounds write to me. He had long grey hair anyways. Forgot about it till reesently. Thing is I knew him. Couldn't put a name to him mind just knew his face from sumwere. But it weren't no one regular if you follow. Reckon now it was Mayberry. Thats all.
With promotion signs flickering in his eyes, Sergeant Robinson rang through to Walsh. He had a momentary qualm about his promise of anonymity—there was no way he could keep Eddie's identity secret now—but it was only momentary. When all was said and done, Eddie had not threatened to string him up by his balls.
Chapter 22
McLoughlin threw open the glass doors of the Police Station and let the heat from outside billow in behind him like a swelling spinnaker. Paddy's Special, taken slowly, lovingly and with immense respect, was swirling nicely in his brain. " 'Now's the day and now's the hour,' " he roared. " 'See the front of battle lour.' Where's Monty? I need troops."
The Desk Sergeant gave a grunt of amusement. There was a certain skinny similarity between Walsh and Montgomery. "On manoeuvres."
"Hell!"
"Someone's identified the body."
"And?"
"David Maybury. The Inspector's wetting himself."
Shock waves drove the alcohol from McLoughlin's brain. Goddammit, he thought, it couldn't be. He'd come to love those women. The pain of loving them gnawed at his insides like a half-starved rat. "Where's he gone?"
The other shook his head. "No idea. Presumably questioning the witness. He and Nick took off like scalded cats about two hours ago."
"Well, he's wrong." His voice was harsh. "It's not Maybury. Tell him that if he gets back before I do, will you?"
Not bloody likely, thought the Desk Sergeant, watching the angry young man shoulder open the doors and surge out on to the pavement. If McLoughlin was intent on self-destruction, he had no plans to go with him. He glanced at his watch and saw with relief that his shift was nearly over.
McLoughlin pulled Anne bodily out of her chair and shook her till her teeth rattled. "Was it David Maybury?" he shouted at her. "Was it?" he spat.
She didn't say anything and, with a groan, he pushed her from him. The donkey jacket slipped from her shoulders, leaving her clad only in a pair of men's pyjamas that were far too big for her. She looked oddly pathetic, like a child playing at being an adult. "I don't know," she said with dignity. "The body was unrecognisable, but I shouldn't think it was David. He's not likely to have come back here after ten years, assuming he was still alive."
"Don't play games, Anne," he said angrily. "You saw the body before it rotted. Who was it?"
She shook her head.
"Someone's ID'd it. They say it's David Maybury."
She licked her lips but didn't answer.
"Help me."
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes," he said bitterly, "it matters to me. I believed in you. I believed in all of you."
Her face twisted. "I'm sorry."
He gave a savage laugh. "You're sorry? Jesus Christ!" He.gripped her arms again, his long fingers curling into the flesh. "Don't you understand, you little bitch? I trusted you. I've put my head on the line for you. Dammit, you owe me."
There was a long silence. When she spoke, her voice was brittle. "Well, hey, McLoughlin, never let it be said that Cattrell doesn't pay her debts." She pulled the cord on her pyjama trousers and let them slither to the floor. "Go ahead. Screw me. That's all you were ever interested in, wasn't it? A good fuck. Just like your precious boss ten years ago."
The sands shifted under his feet. He raised his hands to her throat and stroked the soft white flesh of her neck.
"You didn't know?" Her eyes glittered as she put her hands between his wrists and thrust them apart to break his grip. "The horny little bastard made Phoebe a proposition—a nice clean line drawn under the investigation in return for a weekly screw. Oh, he wasn't quite so vulgar. He dressed it up a bit." She mimicked Walsh's voice. "She was alone and vulnerable. He wanted to protect her. Her beauty had touched him. She deserved something better after her husband's brutal treatment." Her lip curled in derision. "She turned him down and told him where to stick his protection." A strident note made her voice unattractive. "My God, but she was naive. She never considered for one moment that the man held her future in his hands."
"I don't believe this."
She walked across to her armchair and took a cigarette from the packet on the arm. "Why not?" she asked coolly, flicking her lighter. "What makes you think you have a monopoly on wanting to ball murder suspects?" Her eyes mocked him. "God knows what it is, but there's something very attractive about us. Perhaps it's the uncertainty."
He shook his head. "What did you mean when you said he held her future in his hands? You said she was naive."
"Oh, for pity's sake," she countered scornfully. "Who told the world and his wife that Phoebe killed her husband? Who briefed the press, McLoughlin?"
He looked very thoughtful. "She could have sued."
"Who?"
"The newspapers."
"She was never libelled. They weren't so crude as to call her a murderess. They referred to her as 'an avid gardener' in one sentence, then in the next revealed that the police were digging up the flowerbeds. And all neatly sign-posted for them by your boss."
"Why didn't she put in a complaint?" He saw the expression on her face and held up his hands. "Don't say it. Her word against his and he was a detective inspector." He lapsed into silence. "So what happened?"
She drew on her cigarette and raked him with angry eyes. "Walsh couldn't produce the goods because of course David had never been murdered, so the investigation was eventually stopped. It was then the fun started. She found herself on the wrong end of a malicious smear campaign and there wasn't a soul in this bloody place who would give her the time of day. She was on the verge of a nervous breakdown by the time I moved in. Jonny, at the age of eleven, had started to wet his bed and Jane—" She searched his face. "It's going to happen again. That bastard is going to throw Phoebe to t
he wolves a second time." She looked pale beneath the scarlet bandanna.
"Why didn't you tell me all this at the beginning?"
"Would you have believed me?"
"No."
"And now?"
"Maybe." He eyed her for a long time, rubbing his jaw in thoughtful silence. "You're a good journalist, Anne. Couldn't you have written Phoebe's side of it and got her off the hook?"
"You tell me how I can do that without giving Jane as her alibi and I'll write it. Phoebe would burn at the stake before she let her daughter become a sideshow for ghouls. Me, too, if it comes to that." She inhaled deeply. "It's not an alibi anyway. Jane might have fallen asleep."
He nodded. "In that case, why are you so sure he left this house alive?"
She turned away to stub out her cigarette. "Why are you so sure?" She looked back at him. "You are, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Because someone claims now it was David in the ice house?"
"No."
"Why then?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "Because you chose to bury yourself in Streech Grange. That's how I know he walked out of here alive."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're a bloody awful liar, Cattrell."
"I wish you wouldn't keep saying that," she said crossly, stamping her foot, "and I'm freezing."
"So, stop waggling your fanny at me and put some clothes on," he said reasonably, reaching down for her pyjama trousers and tossing them across to her. He watched while she put them on. "It's a nice fanny, Cattrell," he murmured, "but I only came for the truth. I got rather more than I bargained for."
He drove to the forensic laboratories and searched out Dr. Webster in his office. "I was passing," he said. "I wondered if you'd had any new ideas on that corpse of ours."
If Dr. Webster found this approach a little unorthodox, he didn't remark on it. "I've the full report here," he said, tapping a folder on the desk beside him. "The typist finished this morning. You can take a copy back with you if you like." He chuckled. "Mind you, I don't think it's going to please George much, but there we are, he will push for instant opinions and they're not always accurate. Made any progress?"
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