Minette Walters - The Ice House

In her own way she was beautiful. He could drown quite happily in those soft brown eyes. He took a bite out of the Mars bar and chewed on it thoughtfully. "You're a bloody awful liar, Cattrell." He moved his head gently from side to side. "You told me compassion was a frail thing, but I think you've just broken my neck."

There was an atmosphere in the room. Walsh smelled it the minute he stepped inside. McLoughlin was by the window, hands resting on the sill, looking out over the terrace and the long sweep of lawn; Miss Cattrell sat at her desk, doodling, her boots propped on her open bottom drawer, her lower lip protruding aggressively. She looked up as he approached. "Well, thank God for small mercies!" she snapped. "I want to phone my solicitor, Inspector, I want to do it now, and I refuse to answer any more questions until he gets here." She looked very cross.

Anger, thought Walsh with surprise. Somehow, it hadn't smelled like anger. "I hear you," he said equably, "but why would you want to do that?"

McLoughlin opened the French windows to let in Jansen and WPC Brownlow. His legs, seeping sawdust, belonged to somebody else; his stomach, re-awakened by the Mars bar, was clawing at itself in a search for further nourishment; his heart was gambolling about his wilting frame like a healthy spring lamb. He felt rather pleased with himself. "Miss Cattrell," he said, his voice quite steady, "would you agree to WPC Brownlow searching you now, while I explain the position to Inspector Walsh?"

"No," she snapped again, "I would not. I refuse to co-operate any further until my solicitor gets here." She tapped a pencil angrily on the desk-top. "And I'm bloody well not going to say any more in front of you, either, or those creeps you brought with you." She glared at Walsh. "I object to this very strongly. It's bad enough having your personal things mauled over, but to have them mauled over by men is the pits. You must have some women on your force. I refuse to talk to anyone but women."

Walsh hid his excitement well but McLoughlin, with his new clarity of vision, could see the Inspector's scrawny tail wagging. "Are you making a formal complaint against Sergeant McLoughlin and his team?" Walsh asked.

She glanced at Friar. "I don't know. I'll wait until my solicitor gets here." She reached for her telephone and started dialling. "But my objection stands, so, if you want my co-operation, I suggest you find me some women."

The Chief Inspector jerked his head towards the door. "Friar, Jansen, wait in the corridor. Sergeant McLoughlin, gather together what you've found and bring it outside. Brownlow, stay here." He stood back, eyes narrowing, as he watched McLoughlin launch himself off the wall and plough firmly across the floor. There was something wrong, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He darted sharp glances about the room.

Anne was murmuring into the telephone. "Hold on a moment, Bill"-she cupped her hand over the receiver-"I'd like to remind you, Sergeant," she said icily, "that you haven't given me a receipt for what's in my safe. The only receipt I have is the one for my diary."

Jesus, woman, thought McLoughlin, give me a break. I'm not Charles Atlas, I'm the puny one who gets sand kicked in his face. He bowed ironically. "I'll make one out now, Miss Cattrell."

She ignored him and returned to her phone call, listening for a moment. "Dammit, Bill," she exploded angrily into the mouthpiece, "considering how much you charge, you might make the effort to get here a bit sooner. Hell, I may not be one of your fancy London clients, but I always pay on the nail. For God's sake, you can make it in under two hours if you pull your finger out."

Bill Stanley, long-time friend as well as solicitor, grinned at the other end of the line. He had just told her he'd drop everything to be with her in an hour. "I could make it three hours," he suggested.

"That's a bit more like it," she growled. "OK, I'll ask him." She turned to the Inspector. "Are you planning to take me down to the Police Station? My solicitor wants to know where to come."

"That's entirely up to you, Miss Cattrell. Frankly, I'm a little puzzled at the moment as to why you want your solicitor present." McLoughlin turned round with the carving-knife and rag neatly secured in a polythene bag. "Ah!" said Walsh with ill-concealed glee. "Well, that does rather suggest you can help us in our enquiries. As long as you understand there is no duress involved, I think it will be simpler for everyone if we pursue our questioning at the Station."

"Silverborne Police Station," she told her solicitor. "No, don't worry, I won't say anything till you get there." She hung up and snatched the second receipt from McLoughlin. "And there'd better be nothing of mine hidden in that briefcase," she said spitefully. "I've yet to meet a policeman who didn't have sticky fingers."

"That's enough, Miss Cattrell," said Walsh sharply, wondering how McLoughlin had managed to keep his temper with her. But perhaps he hadn't and perhaps that explained the tension in the air. "I draw the line at unwarranted abuse against my officers. Constable Brownlow will wait with you while I have a couple of words with Sergeant McLoughlin in the corridor." He walked stiffly from the room. "Right," he said, when the door had closed behind them, "let's see what you've got." He held out his hand for the polythene bag.

"It's like I told you, sir," said Friar eagerly. "She was hiding it in her safe. And then there's the diary, with talk about death and graves and God knows what else."

"Andy?"

He supported himself against the wall. "I'm not sure." He shrugged.

"Not sure about what?" demanded Walsh impatiently.

"I suspect we're being had, sir."

"Why?"

"A feeling. She's not a fool and it was very easy."

"Friar?"

"That's balls, sir. The diary was easy, I grant you that, but the knife was well hidden. Jansen went all along that wall and missed the safe completely." He threw a look of grudging acknowledgement in McLoughlin's direction. "It was the Sergeant spotted it."

Walsh thought deeply for several moments. "Well, either way we're committed now, so if we're being had, let's find out why. Jansen, you take this back to the Station and get it fingerprinted before I bring Miss Cattrell in. Friar, cut along and give them a hand outside. Andy, I suggest you take over from me in Mrs. Maybury's wing."

"With respect, sir," McLoughlin murmured, "wouldn't it be a better idea if I went through her diary? Friar's right, there are some strange references in there."

Walsh looked at him closely for a moment, then nodded. "Perhaps you're right. Pick out anything you think relevant and have it on my desk before I talk to her." He went back into the room, closing the door behind him.

Friar dogged McLoughlin's heels down the corridor. "You jammy bastard!"

McLoughlin grinned evilly. "Privilege has its perks, Friar."

"You reckon she's going to make a complaint?"

"I doubt it."

"Yeah." Friar paused to light a cigarette. "Jansen and me are clear, whichever way you look at it." He called after McLoughlin: "But I'd sure as hell like to know where those marks on her neck came from." McLoughlin drove straight to a transport cafe on the outskirts of Silverborne and ate and ate till he could eat no more. He kept his mind deliberately on his food and, when an errant thought popped in, he chased it out again. He was at peace with himself for the first time in months. When he'd finished, he went back to his car, reclined the seat and went to sleep.

Jonathan was hanging round the front door when Anne was ushered out by Walsh and WPC Brownlow. He moved aggressively into their path and Walsh had no difficulty recognising in him the gangling boy who had protected his mother so fiercely all those years ago.