Minette Walters - The Ice House

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 sensible 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?"

"No."

"What did you think the hillock was?"

"I can only recall walking right round these gardens once and that was when I first came here. I expect I thought the hillock was a hillock."

McLoughlin didn't believe her. "Don't you go for walks? With the dogs, with your friends?"

She turned her cigarette in her fingers. "Do I look like someone who takes exercise, Sergeant?"

He studied her briefly. "As a matter of fact you do. You're very slim."

"I eat very little, drink only neat spirits and smoke like a chimney. It does wonders for the figure but leaves me gasping for breath halfway up the stairs."

"Don't you help with the gardening?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I'd be a liability. I couldn't tell the difference between a rose-bay willow-herb and a Michaelmas daisy. In any case, when would I find the time? I'm a professional woman. I work all day. We leave the gardening arrangements to Phoebe, that's her province."

He thought of the pot plants in her room. Was she lying again? But why lie about gardening, for Christ's sake? His hand wandered to the uneven stubble on his jaw, touching, testing, fingering. Without warning, a shutter of panic snapped shut in his brain, blanking his memory. Had he shaved? Where had he slept? Had he had breakfast? His eyes glazed and he looked straight through Anne into a darkness beyond her, as of she was in a dimension outside his narrow line of vision.

Her voice was remote. "Are you all right?"

The shutter opened again and left him with the nausea of relief. "Why are you living here, Miss Cattrell?"

"Probably for exactly the same reason you're living in your house. It's as nice a roof over my head as I could find."

"That's hardly an answer. How do you square Streech Grange and its two servants with your conscience? Isn't it rather too-privileged for your taste?" His voice grated with derision.

Anne stubbed out her cigarette. "I simply can't answer that question. It's based on so many false premises that it's entirely hypothetical. Nor, frankly, do I see its relevance."

"Who suggested you come here? Mrs. Maybury?"

"No one. It was my suggestion."

"Why?"

"Because," she repeated patiently, "I thought it would be a nice place to live."

"That's crap," he said angrily.

She smiled. "You're forgetting the sort of woman I am, Sergeant. I have to take my pleasures where I find them. Phoebe wouldn't-couldn't-leave this house to come to London, so I had to come here. It's very simple really."

There was a long silence. "Pleasures don't last," he said softly. The shutter flickered horribly in his brain. " 'Pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts forever.' " He spoke the words to himself. There was another silence. "In your case, Miss Cattrell, the price of pleasure would seem to be hypocrisy. That's a high price to pay. Was Mrs. Maybury worth it?"

If he'd turned a knife in her gut, he couldn't have hurt her more. She took refuge in anger. "Let me give you a brief resume of what led up to this line of questioning. Someone, probably Walsh, told you: she's a feminist, a lefty, a member of CND, an ex-Commie, and God knows what other rubbish besides. And you, exulting in your superiority because you're male and heterosexual, leapt at the chance of having a go at me on matters of principle. You're not interested in truth, McLoughlin. The only issue here is whether you and your inflated ego can make a dent in mine and, Jesus," she spat at him, "you're hardly original in that."

He, too, leant forward so that they were facing each other across the desk. "Who are Fred and Molly Phillips?" She was unprepared, as he had known she would be, and she couldn't hide the flash of concern in her eyes. She sat back in her chair and reached for another cigarette. "They work for Phoebe as housekeeper and gardener."

"Mrs. Goode told us you arranged their employment here. How did you find them?"

"I was introduced to them."

"Through your work, through your political contacts? Perhaps penal reform is one of your interests?"

Damn him to hell and back , she thought, he wasn't a complete clod after all. "I'm on the committee of a London-based group for the rehabilitation of ex-prisoners. I met them through that."

She expected triumph and gave him reluctant credit when he didn't show it. "Have they always been called Phillips?"