Minette Walters - The Ice House

His eyes narrowed angrily. "You're a psychiatrist, are you, Miss Cattrell?"

"Put it this way," she said, leaning forward and studying him coolly. "I can always recognise a chronic drink problem when I see one."

The speed with which his hand shot out and gripped her throat was staggering. He pulled her relentlessly towards him across the desk, his fingers biting into her flesh, a tumult of confused emotions governing his actions. The kiss, if the brutal penetration of another's mouth can be called a kiss, was as unplanned as the assault. He released her abruptly and stared at the red weals on her neck. A cold sweat drenched his back as he realised how vulnerable he had made himself. "I don't know why I did that," he said. "I'm sorry." But he knew that under the same circumstances he would do it again. At last he felt revenged.

She wiped his saliva from her'mouth and pulled her shirt collar up round her neck. "Did you want to ask me anything else?" She spoke as if nothing had happened.

He shook his head. "Not at the present." He watched her stand up. "You can report me for that, Miss Cattrell."

"Of course."

"I don't know why I did it," he said again.

"I do," she said. "Because you're an inadequate little shit."

Sergeant Nick Robinson looked up and saw with relief that he had only two more houses to do before he reached the pub. Off to his right rose the hill which passed Streech Grange gates; behind him, some miles distant, lay Winchester; ahead of him, the brick wall which surrounded the southern flank of the Grange Estate hugged the road to East Deller. He checked his watch. It was ten minutes to opening time and he could murder a pint. If there was one thing he loathed, it was door-to-door questioning. With a lighter step he walked up the short drive to Clementine Cottage and-he checked his list-Mrs. Amy Ledbetter. He rang the bell.

After some minutes and the laborious rattle of an anti-burglar chain, the door opened six inches. A pair of bright eyes examined him. "Yes?"

He held out his identification. "Police, Mrs. Ledbetter."

The card was taken by an arthritically deformed hand and disappeared inside. "Wait there, please," said her voice. "I intend to phone the Police Station and make sure you are who you say you are."

"Very well." He leaned against the side of her porch and lit a cigarette. This was the third telephoned check on him in two hours. He wondered if the uniformed constables were having as much trouble as he was.

Three minutes later the door opened wide and Mrs. Ledbetter gestured him into the living-room. She was well into her seventies with a leathery skin and a no-nonsense look about her. She returned his warrant and told him to take a seat. "There's an ashtray on the table. Well, Sergeant, what can I do for you?"

No need to beat about the bush with this old bat, he thought. Not like her twee little neighbour who claimed that to hear about murder on the television gave her palpitations. "The remains of a murdered man were discovered in the garden of the Grange yesterday afternoon," he said baldly. "We're making enquiries to see if anyone in the village knows anything about it."

"Oh, no," said Amy Ledbetter. "Poor Phoebe."

DS Robinson looked at her with interest. This was a reaction he hadn't met with before. The mood of the other villagers he had spoken to had been one of vituperative satisfaction.

"Would it surprise you," he asked the old lady, "if I said you're the only person so far who's expressed any sympathy for Mrs. Maybury?"

She wrinkled her lips into a moue of disgust. "Of course it wouldn't. The lack of intelligence in this community is staggering. I'd have moved away years ago if I wasn't so fond of my garden. I suppose it's David's body?"

"We don't know yet."

"I see." She considered him thoughtfully. "Well, fire away. What do you want to ask me?"

"Do you know Mrs. Maybury well?"

"I've known her all her life. Gerald Gallagher, Phoebe's father, and my husband were old friends. I used to see a lot of her when she was younger and my husband was still alive."

"And now?"

She frowned. "No, I see very little of her now. My fault." She raised one of her gnarled hands. "Arthritis is the devil. It's more comfortable to stay at home and potter than go out paying calls and it makes you irritable. I was very short with her last time she came to see me and she hasn't been back since. That was about twelve months ago. My fault," she said again.

Game old bird, he thought, and probably more reliable than the others he'd talked to who had dealt in innuendo and gossip. "Do you know anything about her two friends, Mrs. Goode and Miss Cattrell?"

"I've met them, knew them quite well at one time. Phoebe used to bring them home from school. Nice girls, interesting, full of character."

Robinson consulted his notebook. "One of the villagers told me-" he looked up briefly-"and I quote: 'Those women are dangerous. They have made several attempts to seduce girls in the village, they even tried to get my daughter to join one of their lesbian orgies.' " He looked up again. "Do you know anything about that?"

She brushed a stray hair from her forehead with the back of her curled hand. "Dilys Barnes, I suppose. She won't thank you for describing her as a villager. She's a shocking snob, likes to think she's one of us."

He was intrigued. "How did you know?"

"That it was Dilys? Because she's a very silly woman who tells lies. It's lack of breeding, of course. That type will do anything to avoid being laughed at. They've ruined their children with all their snobbish ideas. They sent the boy off to public school, and he's come back with a chip on his. shoulder the size of a mountain. And the daughter, Emma," she pulled a wry face. "I'm afraid poor little Emma has become very loose. I think it's her way of getting back at her mother."

"I see," he said, completely lost.

She chuckled at his expression. "She copulates in the woods at Streech Grange," she explained. "It's a favourite spot for it." She chuckled again as the Sergeant's mouth dropped open. "Emma was seen sneaking out of the grounds late one night and the story her mother put about the next day was that absurd one she's repeated to you." She shook her head. "It's nonsense, of course, and no one really believes it, but they pay lip-service to it because they don't like Phoebe. And she's her own worst enemy. She will let them see how much she despises them. That's always a mistake. Anyway, ask Emma. She's not a bad girl. If you keep what she says confidential, she'll tell you the truth I expect."

He made a note. "Thank you, I will. You say the woods are a favourite spot for-er-copulation."

"Very much so," she said firmly. "Reggie and I used them a lot before we were married. They're particularly nice in the spring. Bluebell woods, you know. Very pretty."

He boggled at her.

"Well, well," she said calmly, "that surprises you, I see, but the young are really very ignorant about sex. People were no more able to control their desire for it in my day than they are now and, thanks to Marie Stopes, we were not unprotected." She smiled. "When you're as old as I am, young man, you'll know that where human nature is concerned, very little changes. Life, for most of us, is the pursuit of pleasure."

Well, that's true , he thought, thinking of his pint. He abandoned his inhibitions. "We've found some used condoms on the Grange Estate which ties in with what you've been saying, Mrs. Ledbetter. Apart from Emma Barnes, do you know of anyone else who might have been making love up there?"

"Precise knowledge, no. Guesses, yes. If you promise to be tactful in approaching the people concerned, I'll give you two more names."

He nodded. "I promise."