Minette Walters - The Ice House

"We've each got a front doorbell. If you press the one with my name on, I'm the only one who hears it." But he knew that already, didn't he?

"Can I sit down?"

"No," she said sharply. He shrugged and walked towards the fireplace. "All right, yes, sit down. What are you doing here?"

He didn't sit down. "I wanted to talk to you."

"What about?"

"Anything. Eternity. Rabbie Burns. Safes." He paused. "Why are you so frightened of me?"

He wouldn't have believed she had any more blood to lose from her face. She didn't answer. He gestured towards the mantelpiece. "May I?" He took her silence for permission and slid back the oak panelling. "Someone's been here before me," he said conversationally. "You?" He looked at her. "No, not you. Someone else." He grasped the chrome handle and gave a strong pull. Too strong. Jonathan had forgotten to snap home the catches and the safe came out in a rush, sending McLoughlin staggering backwards. With a small laugh he lowered it to the floor and peered into the empty hole. "Are you going to tell me what was in here?"

"No."

"Or who removed whatever it was?"

"No."

He ran his fingers down the side of the safe and located the spring catches. "Very neat." He swung it back into position and shoved it home. "But you've been taking it in and out far more often than it was ever designed for. You're wearing away the ledge." He pointed to the bottom of the door. "It isn't parallel with the mantelpiece any more. It should be resting on a concrete lintel. Bricks are no good, they're too soft, too easily crumbled." He slid the oak panelling into place and folded himself into the chair opposite her. "One of Mrs. Maybury's building efforts?" he suggested.

She ignored that. "How did you know it wasn't the mantelpiece that was out of true?" Some of the colour had trickled back into her lips.

"I didn't, not until I opened the panel just now, but whoever's been at it in the meantime put it back even more carelessly than you did. Judging by the unsecured catches, they were presumably in a hurry. What was in there?"

"Nothing. You're imagining things." They sat in silence looking at each other. "Well?" demanded Anne finally.

"Well what?"

"What are you planning to do about it?"

"Oh, I don't know. Find out who cleaned it out, I suppose, and ask them a few questions. It shouldn't be too hard. The field isn't very wide, is it?"

"You'll end up with egg on your face," she said tartly. "The Inspector phoned through for a constable to be in here all the time I was away." He liked her better when she fought back. "So in that case, how could anyone have tampered with the safe? It must have dropped of its own accord."

"That explains the hurry," was all he said. He sank deeper into his chair and rested his chin on steepled fingers.

"I've nothing to tell you. You're wasting your time."

He closed his eyes. "Oh, you've got lots to tell me," he murmured. "Why you came to Streech. Why Mrs. Phillips calls this house a fortress. Why you have nightmares about death." He opened his eyes a fraction to look at her. "Why you panic every time your safe is mentioned and why you like to divert interest away from it."

"Did Fred let you in?"

"No, I climbed the wall at the bottom."

Her eyes were deeply wary. "Why would you do that?"

He shrugged. "There's a barrage of photographers at your gate. I didn't particularly want to be seen coming in."

"Did Walsh send you?"

She was as taut as piano wire. He reached out and took her hand, playing with her fingers briefly before letting them drop. "I'm not your enemy, Cattrell."

A smile flickered. "I'll bet that's what Brutus said as he stuck the knife into Caesar. I'm not your enemy, Caesar, and, hell, old chap, it's nothing personal, I just happen to love Rome more." She stood up and walked to the window. "If you're not my enemy, McLoughlin, then drop me, drop all of us, from the enquiry and look for your murderer somewhere else." The moon was pouring herself in a shimmering libation about the garden. Anne pressed her forehead against the cold glass and stared out at the awesome beauty of what lay beyond. Black roses with coronas of silver; the lawn glittering like an inland sea; a weeping willow, its leaves and branches wrought in sparkling tracery. "But you can't do that, can you? You're a policeman and you love justice more."

"How can I answer that?" he teased her. "It's based on so many false premises that it's entirely hypothetical. I sympathise with personal vengeance. I told you that this morning."

She smiled cynically into the glass. "Are you telling me you wouldn't have arrested Fred and Molly for murdering Donaghue?"

"No. I would have arrested them."

She looked at him with surprise. "That's a more honest answer than I expected."

"I wouldn't have had any choice," he said dispassionately. "They wanted to be arrested. They sat there with the body, waiting for the police to come."

"I see." She smiled faintly. "You make the arrest but you shed crocodile tears while you're doing it. That's a great way of salving your conscience, isn't it?"

He stood up and walked across to look down into her face. "You helped me," he said simply, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I'd like to help you. But I can't if you won't trust me."

He was so damn transparent, she thought, with his state-of-the-art cunning. She chuckled amiably. Two could play at this game. "Trust me , McLoughlin. I don't need your help. I am as innocent of personal revenge and murder as a newborn baby."

Abruptly, as if she were no more than a rag doll, he lifted her off her feet and twisted her towards the light, examining every inch of her face. As a face, it wasn't that special. She had laughter lines etched deeply round her eyes and mouth, frown lines on her forehead, but there was no menace lurking in her dark eyes, no shutters closed on nefandous secrets. Her skin gave off a faint scent of roses. He let go with one hand and ran the tips of his fingers along the curve of her jaw and down the soft line of her neck before, as abruptly, releasing her. "Did you cut his balls off?"

She hadn't expected that. She straightened her sleeves. "No."

"You could be lying through your teeth," he murmured, "and I can't see it."

"That's probably because I'm telling the truth. Why do you find that so hard to believe?"

"Because," he growled angrily, "my damn crotch is ruling my brain at the moment and lust is hardly an indicator of innocence."

Anne glanced down and gave a gurgle of laughter. "I see your problem. What do you plan to do about it?"

"You tell me. Cold showers?"

"God no. That would be Molly's choice. My advice is, when you've got an itch, scratch it."

"I'd enjoy it a little more if you scratched it."

Her black eyes danced. "Did you have the sense to eat something?"

"Sausage and chips about five hours ago."

"Well, I'm starving. I haven't eaten since lunchtime. There's an Indian take-away a couple of miles down the road. How do you fancy discussing your options over a Vindaloo?"

He lifted his hand to caress the curls round the base of her neck. The need to touch her was like an addiction. He was crazy, he didn't believe a damn word she said, but he couldn't help himself.

She saw the look in his eyes. "I'm not your type, McLoughlin," she warned. "I am selfish, self-opinionated and entirely self-centred. I am independent, incapable of sustaining relationships and am often unfaithful. I dislike babies and housework and I can't cook. I am an intellectual snob with unconventional philosophies and left-wing politics. I don't conform, so I'm an embarrassment. I smoke like a chimney, am often rude, loathe getting tarted up and I fart very loudly in bed."

He dropped his hand and grinned down at her. "And on the plus side?"