The Ice House (23 page)

Walsh jabbed his pipe stem angrily at his Sergeant. "DS Robinson is out rounding up Wally Ferris now and by God, there are going to be no mistakes this time."

The younger man stirred. "What will you do? Show him a photograph of Maybury and suggest he was the dead man? Wally will agree with you just to get out of here."

"Staines has already made the identification. If Wally confirms it, we're on safe ground."

"How old is Staines?"

"Twenty-fiveish."

"So he was fifteen when he last saw Maybury? And he claims to have recognised him in the dark? You'll never get a prosecution on that."

"It's a good case," said Walsh calmly. "We've motive, means and opportunity, plus a wealth of circumstantial evidence. Mutilation to obscure identity, lamb bones to tempt scavengers to the ice house, the removal of the clothes to hinder investigation, Fred's obliteration of tracks and evidence. With all that and the positive IDs, she'll confess this time, I think."

McLoughlin rubbed his unshaven jaw and yawned. "You're forgetting the forensic evidence. That's not so easy to fabricate. Webster won't lie for you."

Walsh's ferocious brows snapped together. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know damn well-
sir
. The dead man was too old to be Maybury. And what happened to all the blood?"

Walsh eyed him with intense dislike. "Get out of here!" he growled.

There was humour in the dark face. "Are you going to tell her defence barrister to bugger off every time he asks a reasonable question?"

"The blood was on the clothes, presumably destroyed with them," said Walsh tightly. "As to Webster's interpretation of his skull X-rays, it is just that, an interpretation. The discrepancy between his position and mine is six years. I say fifty-four. He says sixty. He's wrong. Now get out."

McLoughlin shrugged and stood up, reaching into his pocket and removing a piece of folded paper. "The missing persons' list," he said, dropping it on to the desk. "I took a photocopy. It's yours. Keep it as a memento."

"I've seen it."

McLoughlin studied the pink scalp through the thinning hair. He remembered liking this man once. But that was before Anne's revelations. "So I gather. Bob Rogers showed it to you the night the body was discovered. The case, for all it ever was a case, should have been over by the morning."

Walsh stared at him for a moment, then took the paper and unfolded it. There were the same five names and descriptions, but with "Since Traced" scrawled across Daniel Thompson's box. The two young women were of no consequence because of their sex, which left the Asian lad. Mohammed Mirahmadi, who was too young, and the semi-senile Keith Chapel, sixty-eight, who had walked out of his warden-run hostel five months before, wearing a green jacket, blue jumper and bright pink slacks. A tight, cold fist gripped at Walsh's insides. He laid the paper on the desk. "The tramp didn't come into it until the next day," he muttered. "And how could this old man know about Streech Grange or the ice house?"

McLoughlin stabbed at the box with his finger. "Look at his initials," he said. "Keith Chapel. K.C. I rang the warden of his hostel. The old boy used to ramble on endlessly about a garage he'd owned and what a success it was until a woman spread lies about him and he was forced to sell up. You knew all about it. Dammit, it was you who prompted Mrs. Goode to tell the story."

"Only by hearsay," Walsh muttered. "I never met the man. He was gone by the time Maybury disappeared. I thought Casey was a name. Everyone called him Casey. It's in the file as Casey."

"You're damn right it's in the file. For a bit of hearsay, you gave it a hell of an airing. Great story, shame about the facts. Was that about the size of it?"

"It's not my fault if people thought she killed her parents. We just recorded what they told us."

"Like hell you did! You fed it to them first. Jesus, you even hoicked it out for my benefit the other evening. And I believed it." He shook his head. "What did she do, for pity's sake? Laugh? Call you a dirty old man? Threaten to tell your wife?" He waited for a moment. "Or couldn't she hide her revulsion?"

"You're suspended," Walsh whispered. His hands quivered with a life of their own.

"What for? Uncovering the truth?" He slammed his palm on to the missing persons' list. "You bastard! You had the bloody nerve to accuse me of negligence. Those trousers should have registered with you. You heard them described twice in twelve hours. How many men wear pink slacks, for Christ's sake? You knew a man had been reported missing wearing pink trousers. And it wasn't difficult to find Wally. If I'd had that information when I spoke to him-" He shook his head angrily and reached for his briefcase. "There's Dr. Webster's final report." He flung it on to the desk. "Judging by the fact that Wally felt K.C.'s clothes were fit to wear, I think we can safely assume they were neither ripped with a knife nor bloodsoaked. The poor old chap probably died of cold."

"He went missing five months ago," muttered the Inspector. "Where was he for the first two months?"

"In a cardboard box in a subway, I should think, just like all the other poor sods this bloody awful society rejects."

Walsh moved restlessly. "And Maybury? You know all the answers. So where's Maybury?"

"I don't know. Living it up in France, I expect. He seems to have had enough contacts out there through his wine business."

"She killed him."

McLoughlin's eyes narrowed. "The bastard ran away when the money dried up and left her and his two small children to carry the can. It was planned, for God's sake." He was silent for a moment. "I can't think of one good reason why he would have wanted to punish them but, if he did, he must have been praying for a shit like you to turn up." He walked to the door.

"What are you going to do?" The words were barely above a whisper.

McLoughlin didn't answer.

On his way down the corridor, he bumped into Nick Robinson and Wally Ferris. He gave the old man a friendly punch on the shoulder. "You might have left him his underpants, you old rogue."

Wally shuffled his feet and cast sideways glances at both policemen. "You lot gonna charge me then?"

"What with?"

"Didn't do no 'arm, not really. Wet frough I was wiv all that flamin' rain and 'im sittin' there quiet as a mouse. To tell you the trufe I didn't click to 'im bein' dead, not for a while. Put 'im down as one of my sort, but wiv a screw loose. There's a lot like that who've 'ad too much mefs and too little whisky. 'Ad quite a chat wiv 'im one way and anuvver." He pulled a lugubrious face. " 'E didn't 'ave no underpants, son, didn't 'ave nuffink 'cept the fings 'e'd folded up and put on the floor beside 'im." He gave McLoughlin a sly peep. "Didn't see no 'arm in taking 'em, not when 'e didn't need ' em and I did. Bloody parky, it was. I put 'em on over me own cloves."

Nick Robinson, who had had no success in getting Wally to talk, snorted. "You're saying he was sitting there stark naked, dead as a dodo, and you had a chat with him?"

"It was company," muttered Wally defensively, "an' it was a while before I got used to the gloom in the cave. You see some funny fings in my line of business."

"Pink elephants mostly, I should think." Robinson looked enquiringly at McLoughlin. "What's all this about the clothes?"

"You'll find out. What do you reckon he died of, Wally?"

"Gawd knows. Cold, I should fink. That place is freezin' wiv ve door closed, an' 'e'd wedged a brick against it. I 'ad to push pretty 'ard to get it open. It weren't nuffink nasty. 'E 'ad a smile on 'is face."

There was a sharp indrawn breath from Robinson. "But there was blood, wasn't there?"

Wally's old eyes looked shocked. "Course there weren't no blood. I wouldn't 'ave stayed if there was blood. 'E was in lovely shape. On the white side per'aps but that was natural. It was dark wiv all the rain outside." He wrinkled his nose. "Whiffed a bit, but I didn't 'old it against 'im. Dare say I didn't smell too good meself."

It was like something out of a Samuel Beckett play, thought McLoughlin. Two old men sitting in semi-darkness, chatting-one nude and dead, the other sodden, and in more ways than one. He didn't doubt for a minute that Wally had spent the night with K.C., rambling happily about this and that. Wally loved to talk. Was it a horrible shock, he wondered, to find in the sober morning light that he'd been chatting with a corpse? Probably not. Wally, he was sure, had seen many worse things. "So did you shut the door again when you left?"

The old man pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip. "Sort of." He seemed to be weighing the problem in his mind. "That's to say, I did the first time. The first time I shut it. Seemed to me 'e wanted to be left in peace or 'e wouldn't 'ave wedged a brick against it. Then that geezer in the shed gave me the whisky, an' I 'ad a few mouffuls, an' I got to finking about proper burials an' such. Seemed wrong some'ow to leave 'im wivout a chance of a few good words bein' said for 'im, wouldn't want it personally, so I nips back and opens the door. Reckoned 'e'd 'ave more chance of bein' found wiv ve door open."

It would be cruel, McLoughlin thought, to tell him that by opening the door he had let in the heat, the dogs, the rats and putrefaction. He hoped Walsh wouldn't do it.

"And that," Wally finished firmly, "is all I knows. Can I go now?"

"Not likely," said Nick Robinson, "the Inspector wants a word with you." He took a firm grip on Wally's arm and looked enquiringly at McLoughlin. "How about filling me in?"

.McLoughlin grinned evilly. "Let's just say, you got your wires crossed, old son."

He folded himself wearily into his car and sat for some time staring blankly through the windscreen. Some words of Francis Bacon kept repeating themselves in his mind like a memory-jerk mnemonic. "Revenge is a kind of wild justice. The more man's nature runs to it, the more ought law to weed it out." He rubbed his gaunt face. He had told Anne he sympathised with personal vengeance but he knew now that wasn't true. The end result of an "eye for an eye" was a world gone blind. With a sigh, he fired the motor and drew out into the traffic.

He lived in a modern box on a large estate to the northwest of Silverborne where every house was depressingly similar and where individuality expressed itself only in what colour you chose to paint your front door. It had satisfied him once. Before he had seen Streech Grange.

"Hello, Andy," said Kelly. She was standing irresolutely by the kitchen sink, mop in hand, washing the dirty dishes he had left untouched for ten days. He had forgotten how stunning she was and how easily that fabulous body had once been able to turn him on.

"Hello."

"Pleased to see me?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Look, you don't need to do those. I was planning to tackle them over the weekend. I haven't been around much this week."

"I know. I've been trying to phone you."

He went to the fridge and took out a piece of cheese from among the opened tins of furred tomatoes and sliced cling peaches. He held it out to her. "Want some?" She shook her head, so he ate the whole lump before looking at his watch. "I've a phone call to make, then I'll grab a quick shower before I go out." He waved his arm to encompass the whole house. "Take your time and take what you like." He smiled without hostility. "Except my books and my two boat paintings. You won't quibble over those, will you? You always said they were only good for gathering dust." So much so that they had been relegated, along with him, to the spare room.

He was on his way to the stairs when his conscience smote and he turned round. "Look, really, don't do the washing-up. It's not necessary. I'd have done it myself if I'd had the time." He smiled again. "You'll ruin your nail varnish."

Her mouth trembled. "Jack and me, it didn't work." She flung herself after him and burrowed her sweet-smelling head into his chest. "Oh, Andy, I've missed you. I want to come home. I want to come home so much."

An awful lethargy stole over him then, like the lethargy a drowning man must feel in the moment before he gives up. His eyes looked into the middle distance above her head, seeking straws. There were none. He held her for a second or two, then gently disentangled himself. "Come home," he said. "It's yours as much as mine."

"You're not angry?"

"Not at all. I'm glad."

Her wonderful eyes shone like stars. "Your mother said you would be."

Straws, he thought, were useless to drowning men. It was the unquenchable longing for life that kept heads above water. "I'll have that shower, then I'll be off," he said. "I'll fetch the books and the paintings tomorrow, and maybe the records I bought before we were married." He glanced through the sitting-room door at the chromium coffee table, the oatmeal carpet, the net curtains, the white formica wall units and the dainty pastel three-piece suite, and he thought, no one has even lived here. He shook his head. "There's nothing else I want."

She caught him by the arm. "You
are
angry."

His dark face cracked into a grin. "No. I'm glad. I needed a push. I hate this place. I always have done. It's so"-he sought for a word-"sterile." He looked at her with compassion. "Like our marriage."

She dug her fingers into his arm. "I knew you'd bring that up, you bastard. But it's not my fault. You never wanted kids any more than I did."

He removed her hands. "That wasn't quite the sterility I was referring to."

She was bitter. "You've found someone else."

He moved to the telephone, took a piece of paper from his pocket and dialled the number written on it. "McLoughlin," he said into the mouthpiece. "We've identified the body. That's it, all over the newspapers tomorrow, so if he's any sense he'll lie low. Yes, it'll have to be tonight. Damn right, I want him. Let's just say I take what he did personally. So can you swing it?" He listened for a moment. "Just make the point that they've got away with murder again. I'll be with you by ten." He looked up and caught Kelly's eye.

Water had gathered in great droplets round the mascaraed lashes. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe Glasgow."

Tears turned to anger, and her anger lashed out at him as it always had done. "You've left that bloody job, haven't you? After all the begging I did for you to leave, you've left it because someone else asked you."

"No one's asked me, Kelly, and I haven't left it, not yet."

"But you will."

"Maybe."

"Who is she?"

He found he wanted to hurt her, so there must be some feeling left. Perhaps there always would be. Seven years, however sterile, had left their mark. "She's my rose," he said, "my red, red rose." And Kelly, who had heard enough of hated Rabbie Burns to last a lifetime, felt a knot of panic tighten round her heart.

Phoebe rocked Diana's shoulder and prodded her into wakefulness. "We've got visitors," she whispered. "I need help." Somewhere in the darkness behind her came the low growls of the dogs.

Diana squinted at her out of 'one eye. "Turn the light on," she said sleepily.

"No, I don't want them to know we're awake." She bundled Diana's dressing-gown on to her chest. "Come on, old girl, get a move on."

"Have you called the police?" Diana sat up and shrugged her arms into the dressing-gown.

"No point. It'll be over one way or another long before the police get here." Phoebe switched on a small torch and pointed it at the floor. "Come on," she urged, "we haven't much time."

Diana pulled on her slippers and padded after her. "Why are the dogs here? Why aren't they outside? And where's McLoughlin?"

"He didn't come tonight." She sighed. "The one night we needed him, he didn't turn up."

"So what are you planning to do?"

Phoebe lifted her shotgun from where she had propped it outside Diana's bedroom door. "I'm going to use this," she said, leading the way downstairs, "and I don't want to shoot the dogs by mistake. It'll be their turn to have a go if the bastards manage to break in."

"Lord, woman," muttered Diana, "you're not intending to kill anyone, are you?"

"Don't be a fool." She crept across the hall and into her drawing-room. "I'm going to scare the shit out of the creeps. They didn't get rid of me last time. They won't get rid of me now." She gestured Diana to one side of the curtains and, switching off the torch, took up a position on the other side. "Keep your eyes peeled. If you see anyone on the far side of the terrace, let me know."

"I'm going to regret this," Diana groaned, twitching the curtain aside and peering into the darkness. "I can't see a bloody thing. How do you know they're out there?"

"Benson came in through the cellar window and woke me. I trained him to do it after the first time these yobs had a go at me." She patted the old dog's head. "You're such a good boy, aren't you. It's years since I've had you patrolling the grounds and you haven't forgotten." The sound of the dog's tail swishing backwards and forwards across the carpet was loud in the quiet room. Hedges, unborn at the time of David Maybury's disappearance, crouched by his mistress's feet, muscles tensed for when his turn came. Phoebe scanned the wide terrace for signs of movement. "Your eyes will soon adjust."

"There
is
someone," said Diana suddenly. "By the right-hand wall. Do you see him?"

"Yes. There's another coming round Anne's wing." She gripped her shotgun firmly. "Can you unlock the windows without making a noise?"

For a brief moment Diana hesitated, then she shrugged and applied herself carefully to the key. Phoebe, she argued, knew all there was to know about hell. She had been there. She wouldn't willingly go back a second time. In any case, the adrenaline was racing in her as strongly as it was racing in Phoebe. It was backs-against-the-wall time, she thought, when everyone, even rabbits, showed their teeth. "OK," she whispered, as the lock clicked quietly open. She peeped past the edge of the curtain again. "Oh, lord," she breathed, "there are dozens of them."

Black figures crouched along the edge of the terrace like a troop of apes, but to think of them as such was to demean the animals. It is only man, with his single evolutionary advancement of reason, who takes pleasure in other people's pain. Diana's mouth went dry. There was something unbelievably chilling in mob hysteria where individual accountability was subordinate to the group.

"Hardly dozens; five, six at the most. When I say, 'Now,' open the door wide." Phoebe gave a wild laugh. "We'll put the old adage to the test and wait till we see the whites of their eyes. I've always wanted to try it."

There was confusion in the huddled mass as they seemed to crowd together about the terrace wall, then separate again. "What are they doing?" asked Diana.

"Pulling bricks off the top by the look of it. Keep your head down if they start throwing them."

One of the group seemed to be the leader. He used his arms to direct his troop, half to go down one side of the terrace, half to take the other side. "Now," muttered Phoebe urgently. "I don't want them splitting up."

Diana twisted the handle and thrust the door open. Phoebe was through it in a second, her tall figure melting into the shadows. She had raised the heavy stock to her shoulder and was about to sight down the barrel when one large hand clamped itself over her mouth and another plucked the gun from her grasp.

"I wouldn't if I were you, madam," whispered Fred's soft voice in her ear. He kept his hand firmly over her mouth and used his forearm on her shoulder to force her to her knees. Bent double, he laid the shotgun noiselessly on the flagstones then, urging her upright again, he caught her round the waist as if she were no more than a piece of thistledown, and lifted her through the drawing-room windows. He felt Diana's presence, rather than saw it. "Not a sound," he cautioned her in a tight whisper, "and close the window, if you please."

"But, Fred-" she began.

"Do as I say, Mrs. Goode. Do you want madam hurt?"

Thoroughly shaken, Diana did as he said.

Ignoring Phoebe's biting teeth, Fred hauled her unceremoniously across the room and bundled her into the hall. Diana pursued him. "What are you doing?" she demanded fiercely, buffeting him around his shoulders with bunched fists. "Put Phoebe down this minute." Benson and Hedges, alarmed by Diana's tone, threw themselves against Fred's legs.

"This door, too, Mrs. Goode, if you please."

She caught a handful of his sparse hair and tugged hard. "Let her go," she grunted.

With a sigh of pain, he swung round, carrying both women with him, and kicked the door to with his foot. Seconds later the French windows shattered inwards into a thousand pieces. "There," he said amiably, setting Phoebe carefully on the floor and removing his hand from her mouth. "We're all right now, I think. If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Goode, that
is
a little painful. Thank you." He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it round his bleeding fingers. "Good boys," he murmured, fondling the dogs' muzzles, "that's the ticket. I don't say I'm not annoyed about another window needing new glass, but this time we'll make sure it's paid for." He opened the door. "Would you excuse me, madam? I'd hate to miss the fun."

Speechlessly, the two women watched his great bulk pad lightly across the broken glass and step out on to the terrace. Beyond, lit by brilliant moonlight, was a scene from Hieronymus Bosch. A grotesque tangle of misshapen figures writhed in hideous and noisy confusion upon the lawn. As Fred, with a curdling roar, charged across the terrace and launched himself atop the melee, Phoebe took in the situation at a glance, whistled up Hedges and pointed to one flying fugitive who had managed to pull himself free. "Off you go, boy." Hedges, barking with excitement, bounded across the grass, bowled his man over and pranced about him, howling his achievement to the moon. Benson, not to be outdone, waddled on to the terrace, sat comfortably on his haunches and raised his old muzzle in joyous unison.

The row from dogs and flailing bodies was deafening.

"Men!" exclaimed Diana in Phoebe's ear and Phoebe, with adrenaline still running rampant in her bloodstream, burst into tears of laughter.