Minette Walters - The Ice House

His eyes strayed to the huge file on David Maybury which he'd resurrected from the archives that morning, and which, refurbished and glossy in its pristine new folder, sat now on the edge of his desk like a promise of spring. "You bastard!" said Chief Inspector Walsh.

Summoned by urgent telephone calls, Jonathan Maybury and Elizabeth Goode arrived early that afternoon in Jonathan's battered red Mini. As he drove it in through the gates and past the Lodge, Elizabeth turned to him with a worried frown. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" "Tell anyone what?"

"You know perfectly well. Promise me, Jon."

He shrugged. "OK, but I think you're mad. Much better to come clean now."

"No," she said firmly. "I know what I'm doing."

He glanced out of the window at the azaleas and rhododendrons, long past their best, which hedged the length of the driveway. "I wonder if you do. From where I stand, there's very little difference between your paranoia on the subject and your mother's. You'll have to find the guts to speak out sooner or later, Lizzie."

"Don't be an idiot," she snapped.

He slowed as the wide sweep of gravel in front of the house opened up before them. Two cars were already parked there. "Plainclothes police cars," he said with grim humour, drawing the mini alongside one of them. "I hope you're ready for the thumbscrews."

"Oh, for God's sake grow up," she exploded angrily, her worry and her uncertain temper getting the better of her. "There are times when I could quite happily murder you, Jon."

"We've found a pair of shoes, sir." DC Jones placed a transparent plastic bag on the ground at Walsh's feet.

Walsh, who was sitting on a tree stump at the edge of the woodland surrounding the ice house, leaned forward to peer at the bag's contents. The shoes were good quality brown leather with irregular cloudy patches on the surface where damp had penetrated and then dried. One shoe had a brown lace, the other a black lace. Walsh turned the bag over and looked at the soles.

"Interesting," he said. "New heels with metal studs. There's hardly a mark on them. What size are they?"

"Eights, sir." Jones pointed to the shoe with the brown, lace. "You can just make it out on that one."

Walsh nodded. "Tell one of your men to go up to the house and find out what size shoes Fred Phillips and Jonathan Maybury wear, then on down to the village to see how Robinson and his chaps are getting on. If they've finished, I want them up here."

"Righto," said Jones irreverently.

Walsh stood up. "I'll be at the ice house with Sergeant McLoughlin."

DS Robinson returned to the pub as the last customers left.

"Sorry, mate," said the landlord amiably, recognising him from the pint he had bought earlier. "Too late. Can't serve you now."

Robinson proffered his identification. "DS Robinson, Mr. Clarke. I'm asking questions around the village. You're my last port of call."

Paddy Clarke leaned his elbows on the bar and chuckled. "The body at the Grange, I suppose. There's been talk of nothing else all lunchtime. Sod all I can tell you about it."

Nick Robinson perched himself on a bar stool and offered Paddy a cigarette before taking one himself. "You'd be surprised. People often know more than they think they do."

He assessed his man rapidly and decided here was another where a straightforward approach would pay. Paddy was a big, bluff man with a ready smile and a shrewd eye. But not a person to cross, Robinson thought. His hands were the size of meat plates.

'"We're interested in any strangers who may have been through Streech in the last few months, Mr. Clarke."

Paddy guffawed with laughter. "Give me a break. I get strangers in here every day, people taking the back roads down to the West Country, stopping off for a quick lunch. Can't help you there."

"Fair enough, but someone mentioned seeing an old tramp a while back, thought he may have come in here. Does that ring a bell?"

Paddy squinted through the smoke from his cigarette. "Funny. I wouldn't have remembered him myself, but now you mention it, we did have one in here, said he'd walked from Winchester. Looked like a bundle of old rags, sat in the corner over there." He nodded to a corner by the fireplace. "The wife wanted me to turn him away, but I'd no reason to. He had money and he behaved himself, made a couple of pints last through to closing time then shambled off along the Grange wall. You think he's involved?"

"Not necessarily. We're just looking for leads at the moment. When was this? Can you remember?"

The big man thought for a moment. "It was pissing down outside. Reckon he came in to dry off. The wife might remember when. I'll ask her and give you a ring if you like."

"She's not here then?"

"Gone to the Cash and Carry. She'll be back soon."

Nick Robinson checked his notebook. "I gather you also do a Good Samaritan act with stranded caravans."

"About twice a year when idiots cut the corner. It's good for business, mind. They usually feel obliged to come in and eat something." He nodded towards the window. "It's the Council's fault. They've stuck a bloody great sign for the East Deller campsite at the top of the hill. I've complained about it but nobody takes any notice."

"Anything strike you about the people you've rescued, anything unusual?"

"There was a one-legged German midget once with a wife like Raquel Welsh. That struck me as unusual."

Nick Robinson smiled as he made a note. "Nothing unusual."

"You don't have much to go on, do you?"

"That depends on you." Unconsciously, the policeman lowered his voice. "Is anyone else here?"

Paddy's eyes narrowed slightly. "No one. What are you after?"

"A confidential chat, sir, preferably with no eavesdroppers," said Robinson, eyeing the large hands.

Paddy squeezed the glowing end of his cigarette into an ashtray with fingers the size of sausages. "Go ahead." His tone was not inviting.

"The body was found in the ice house at the Grange. Do you know the ice house?"

"I know there is one. I couldn't lead you to it."

"Who told you about it?"

"Probably the same person who told me there's a two-hundred-year-old oak in the woods," said Paddy with a shrug. "Maybe I got it from David Maybury's booklet. I couldn't say."

"What booklet?"

"I've some copies somewhere. David had this idea of fleecing the tourists, wanted to turn Grange into another Stourhead. He produced a map of the grounds with a short history of the house and had a hundred or so copies printed. It was a dead duck from the word go. He wouldn't spend any money on advertising and who the hell's ever heard of Streech Grange?" Paddy gave a derogatory snort. "Stupid bastard. He was a cheapskate, always expected something for nothing."

Robinson's eyes were alight with interest. "Do you know who else has this booklet?"

"We're talking twelve to thirteen years, Sergeant. As far as I remember, David handed them out to anyone who would pass them on to tourists. Testing the water, he said. Whether anyone else's still got a copy I wouldn't know."

"Can you look yours out?"

The other man was doubtful. "Christ knows where they are, but I'll have a go. The wife might know."

"Thanks. I gather you knew Maybury quite well."

"As well as I wanted to."

"What sort of man was he? What was his background?"

Paddy stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, dredging up memories. "Upper-middle-class, I'd say. He was the son of an Army major who was killed during the war. I don't think David ever really knew his father but old Colonel Gallagher certainly did. I imagine that's why he let Phoebe's marriage go ahead, he thought the son would take after his father." His lips twisted into a cynical smile. "Fat chance. David was a bastard through and through. The story goes that when his mother died he had the choice of going to her funeral or going to the Derby. He chose the Derby because he had a fortune riding on the favourite."