Minette Walters - The Ice House

"Paddy Clarke, the landlord at the pub. He's married to a harridan who has no idea how highly sexed he is. She thinks he takes the dog for a walk after closing time while she clears up inside, but I've seen the dog running loose in the moonlight too often to believe that. I don't sleep well," she added, by way of explanation.

"And the other?"

"Eddie Staines, one of the farmhands up at Bywater Farm. A good-looking young devil, out with a different girlfriend every month. I've seen him set off up that hill a few times." She nodded in the direction of the Grange.

"That's very helpful," he said.

"Anything else?"

"Yes." He looked a little sheepish. "Have you noticed any strangers about? In the last six months, say?" This question had been greeted with universal amusement.

Mrs. Ledbetter cackled. "Twenty-five years ago I might have been able to give you a sensible answer to a question like that. Nowadays, impossible." She shrugged. "There are always strangers about, especially in the summer. Tourists, people driving through and stopping at the pub for lunch, campers from the site at East Deller. We've had a few caravans get stuck in the ditch on the corner, usually French ones, such bad drivers they are. Ask Paddy. He pulls them out with his jeep. No, I can't help you there, I'm afraid."

"Sure?" he prompted. "Someone on foot perhaps, someone you remember from years ago?"

She gave an amused snort. "David Maybury, you mean? I certainly haven't seen him in the last few months. I'd have reported that. The last time I saw David was a week before he disappeared. It was in Winchester in the days when I could still drive and I came across him in Woolworths buying a teddy-bear for Jane. He was a strange character. Vile one day, charming the next, what my husband would have called a cad, the sort of man that women are invariably attracted to." She lapsed into silence for a moment. "There was the tramp, of course," she said.

"What tramp?"

"He came through the village some weeks back. Funny old man with a brown trilby hanging off the back of his head. He was singing 'Molly Malone,' I remember. Quite beautifully. Ask Paddy. I'm sure he went into the pub." Her head sank wearily against the back of her chair. "I'm tired. I can't help you any more. Show yourself out, young man, and don't forget to shut the gate." She closed her eyes.

DS Robinson rose smartly to his feet. "Thank you for giving me so much of your time, Mrs. Ledbetter." She was snoring quietly as he tip-toed out.

Inspector Walsh replaced the telephone receiver and stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. Dr. Webster had been irritatingly unhelpful. "Can't prove it is Maybury, can't prove it isn't," he had said cheerfully along the wire, "but my professional guess is it isn't."

"Why, for God's sake?"

"Too many discrepancies. I can't make a match on the hair for a kick-off, though I'm not saying that's the end of it. I've sent samples off to a friend of mine who claims to be an expert in these things but don't get your hopes up. He warned me that the sample you got off Maybury's hairbrush may have deteriorated too far. Certainly I couldn't do anything with it."

"What else?"

"Teeth. Did you notice our corpse was toothless? Not an incisor or molar in sight. Indications that he had dentures, but there were none with him. Looks like something or someone removed them. Now, Maybury on the other hand had all his teeth ten years ago and his records show they were in pretty good shape, only four fillings between them. That's a very different picture, George. He'd have to have suffered appalling gum disease to necessitate having all his teeth out within ten years."

Walsh pondered for a moment. "Let's say, for whatever reason, he wanted to lose his old identity. He could have had them taken out on purpose."

Webster chuckled good-humouredly. "Far-fetched though not impossible. But why would Ms. Maybury remove his dentures in that case, assuming she's our murderer? She, of all people, would know they couldn't identify him. To be honest, George, I'd say it's the other way round. Whoever murdered our chap in the ice house removed anything that would show he wasn't Maybury. He's had all his toes and fingertips mauled, for example, as if someone wanted to prevent us taking prints. Yet everyone at that house knows you didn't manage to lift a single workable print ten years ago."

"God damn it," exploded Walsh. "I thought I had the bastard at last. Are you sure, Jim? What about the missing fingers?"

"Well, they're certainly missing, but it looks as though they've been chopped off with a meat cleaver. I've compared them with the records of Maybury's amputations and they're nothing like. Maybury had lost the top two joints of both fingers. Our corpse has had his severed at the base of each finger."

"Doesn't prove it's not Maybury."

"I agree, but it does look as if someone who knew only that he'd lost his last two fingers has tried to make us think it's Maybury. To be honest, George, I'm not even positive at the moment that a human agency is involved. It is quite conceivable, if a little bizarre, that very sharp teeth have mutilated him in the way I've described. Take that filleting you pointed out. I've taken some close-ups of some furrows on the ribs and it's damned hard to say what they are. I can't rule out tooth marks."

"Blood group?"

"Yup, you've got a match there all right. Both O positive, just like fifty per cent of the population. And, talking of blood, you must find his clothes. There's very little in that mud we scraped off the floor."

"Great," Walsh had growled, "so what good news have you got for me?"

"I'm getting the report typed now, but I'll give you the gist. Male, white, five feet ten inches-give or take an inch on either side, both femurs have been well and truly smashed so I wouldn't be too dogmatic on that one-broad build probably running to fat, hair on chest and shoulder blades, indication of tattoo discolouration on right forearm, size eight shoe. No idea of hair colour but hair was probably dark brown before it went grey. Age, over fifty."

"Oh, for God's sake, Jim. Can't you be more precise?"

"It's not a precise science as people get older, George, and a few teeth would have helped. It's all a question of fusion between the skull plates, but somewhere between fifty and sixty is my guess at the moment. I'll come back to you when I've done some more homework."

"All right," said Walsh grudgingly. "When did he die?"

"I've taken some advice on this one. The consensus is, weighing the heat of the summer against the cool of the ice house-bearing in mind that the ambient temperature in the ice house may have been quite high if the door was open-and balancing that against the acceleration in decomposition after the scavengers had pulled him open and devoured him, plus possible mutilation by human agency but minus severe maggot infestation because the blowflies didn't lay in numbers, though I've sent some larvae off for further examination-"

"All right, all right, I didn't ask for a bloody biology lesson. How long's he been dead?"

"Eight to twelve weeks or two to three months, whichever you prefer."

"I don't prefer either of them. They're too vague. There's a month's difference. Which do you favour, eight or twelve?"

"Probably somewhere in the middle, but don't quote me."

"You'll be lucky," was Walsh's parting shot. He slammed the phone down crossly, then buzzed his secretary on the intercom. "Mary, love, could you get me all the details on a man who was reported missing about two months ago? Name: Daniel Thompson, address: somewhere in East Deller. I think you'll find Inspector Staley covered it. If he's free, ask him to give me five minutes, will you?"

"Sure thing," she breezed back.