"You'll have to let me think about it," she said. "At the moment, I honestly can't remember if we ever used it when David was alive. I have no recollection of it." She paused briefly. "I do recall my father using it as a darkroom one winter when I was on holiday from school. He didn't do it for very long." She smiled. "He said it was a confounded bore slogging all the way down there in the cold." She gave a low ripple of laughter as if memories of her father made her happy. "He took the films to a professional in Silverborne instead. My mother said it was because he enjoyed blaming someone else when the prints were disappointing, which they often were. He wasn't a very good photographer." She looked steadily at the Inspector. "I can't remember its being used after that, not until we decided to stack the bricks in there. The children might know. I suppose I could ask them."

Walsh remembered her children, a gangling ten-year-old boy, arriving home from his boarding prep-school in the middle of the investigation, his eyes the same clear blue as his mother's, and an eight-year-old daughter with a bush of curling dark hair. They had protected her, he recalled, with the same fierce quality that her two friends had shown earlier in the drawing-room. "Jonathan and Jane," he said. "Do they still live at home, Mrs. Maybury?"

"Not really. Jonathan rents a flat in London. He's a medical student at Guy's. Jane is studying politics and philosophy at Oxford. They spend the odd weekend and holidays here. That's all."

"They've done well. You must be pleased." He thought sourly of his own daughter who had got herself pregnant at sixteen and who now, at the age of twenty-five, was divorced with four children, and had nothing to look forward to except life in a tatty council flat. He consulted his notes. "You seem to have acquired a profession since I last saw you, Mrs. Maybury. Constable Williams tells me you're a market gardener."

Phoebe seemed puzzled by his change of direction. "Fred's helped me build up a small Pelargonium nursery." She spoke warily. "We specialise in the Ivyleaf varieties."

"Who buys them?"

"We have two main customers in this country, one's a supermarket chain and the other's a garden-supplies outlet in Devon and Cornwall. We've also had a few bulk orders from the States which we've air-freighted out." She was intensely suspicious of him. "Why do you want to know?"

"No particular reason," he a.s.sured her. He sucked noisily on his pipe. "I expect you get a lot of customers from the village."

"None," she said shortly. "We don't sell direct to the public and, anyway, they wouldn't come here if we did."

"You're not very popular in Streech, are you, Mrs. Maybury?"

"So it would seem, Inspector."

"You worked as a receptionist in the doctor's surgery ten years ago. Didn't you like that job?"

A flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt lifted the corners of her mouth. "I was asked to leave. The patients felt uncomfortable with a murderess."

"Did your husband know about the ice house?" He shot the question at her suddenly, unnerving her.

"That it was there, you mean?"

He nodded.

"I'm sure he must have done, though, as I say, I don't remember him ever going in there."

Walsh made a note. "We'll follow that up. The children may remember something. Will they be here this weekend, Mrs. Maybury?"

She felt cold. "I suppose if they don't come down, you'll send a policeman to them."

"It's important."

There was a tremor in her voice. "Is it, Inspector? You have our word there was no body in there six years ago. What possible connection can that-that thing have with David's disappearance?" She took off her gla.s.ses and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. "I don't want the children hara.s.sed. They suffered enough when David went missing. To have the whole ghastly trauma played out a second time and for no obvious reason would be intolerable."

Walsh smiled indulgently. "Routine questions, Mrs. Maybury. Hardly very traumatic, surely?"

She put her gla.s.ses on again, angered by his response. "You were extraordinarily stupid ten years ago, of course. Why I ever a.s.sumed the pa.s.sage of time would make you any brighter, I can't think. You sent us to h.e.l.l and you call it 'hardly traumatic.' Do you know what h.e.l.l is? h.e.l.l is what a little girl of eight goes through when the police dig up all the flowerbeds and question her mother for hours on end in a closed room. h.e.l.l is what is in your young son's eyes when his father deserts him without a word of explanation and his mother is accused of murder. h.e.l.l is seeing your children hurting and not being able to do a d.a.m.n thing to stop it. You asked me if I was pleased with their achievements." She leaned forward, her face twisted. "Surely even you could have come up with something a little more imaginative? They have lived through the mysterious disappearance of their father, their mother being branded a murderess, their home being turned into a tourist attraction for the ghoulish and they have survived it relatively unscathed. I think 'ecstatic' might be a better description of how I feel about the way they've turned out."

"We suggested at the time you should send the children away, Mrs Maybury." Walsh kept his voice carefully neutral. "You chose to keep them here against our advice."

Phoebe stood up. It was only the second time he had ever seen any violent emotion on that face. "My G.o.d, I hate you." She put her hands on the desk and he saw that the fingers trembled uncontrollably. "Where was I to send them? My parents were dead, I had no brothers or sisters, neither Anne nor Diana was in a position to care for them. Was I supposed to entrust them to strangers when their own secure world was turning upside down?" She thought of her only relation, her father's unmarried sister, who had fallen out with the family years before. The old lady had read between every line of every newspaper with voracious delight and had penned her own small piece of poison to Phoebe on the subject of the sins of the parents. What her intentions were in writing the letter was anyone's guess but, in a strange way, her warped predictions for Jonathan and Jane had been a liberation for Phoebe. She had seen clearly then-and for the first time-that the past was dead and buried and that regrets would achieve her nothing.

"How dare you speak to me of choice! My only choice was to smile while you shat on me and never once let the children know how frightened and alone I felt." Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk. "I will not go through all that again. I will not allow you to stick your dirty fingers into my children's lives. You've spread your filthy muck here once. You're b.l.o.o.d.y well not going to do it again." She turned away and walked to the door.

"I've some more questions for you, Mrs. Maybury. Please don't go."

She looked round briefly as she opened the door. "f.u.c.k off, Inspector." The door slammed behind her.

McLoughlin had listened to their exchange with rapt attention. "Bit of a sea-change from this afternoon. Is she always as volatile?"

"Quite the reverse. Ten years ago we never rattled her composure once." He sucked thoughtfully on his filthy briar.

"It's those two d.y.k.es she's shacked up with. They've turned her against men."

Walsh was amused. "I should think David Maybury did that years ago. Let's talk to Mrs. Goode. Will you go and find her?"

McLoughlin reached for a sandwich and crammed it into his mouth before standing up. "What about the other one? Shall I line her up too?"

The Chief Inspector thought for a moment. "No. She's a dark horse, that one. I'll let her stew till I've checked up on her."

From where he was standing, McLoughlin could see pink scalp shining through Walsh's thinning hair. He felt a sudden tenderness for the older man, as if Phoebe's hostility had exorcised his own and reminded him where his loyalties lay. "She's your most likely suspect, sir. She'd have enjoyed cutting that poor sod's b.a.l.l.s off. The other two would have hated it."

"You're probably right, lad, but I'm betting he was dead when she did it."

5.

Streech Grange was a fine old Jacobean mansion built of grey stone, with mullioned, leaded windows and steep slate roofs. Two wings, later additions, extended out at either end of the main body of the house, embracing the sides of the flagged terrace where the women had taken their tea. Stud part.i.tions inside made each of these wings self-contained, with unlocked doors on the ground floor giving access to and from them. Sergeant McLoughlin, after a fruitless search of the drawing-room and the kitchen which were both empty, came to the communicating door with the east wing. He tapped lightly but, getting no response, turned the handle and walked down the corridor in front of him.

A door stood ajar at the end. He could hear a deep voice-unmistakably Anne Cattrell's-coming from inside the room. He listened.

"astick to your guns and don't let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds intimidate you. G.o.d knows, I've had more experience of them than most. Whatever happens, Jane must be kept out of the way. You agree?" There was a murmur of a.s.sent. "And, old love, if you can wipe the smirk off that Sergeant's face, you'll have my lifelong admiration."

"I suppose it's occurred to you"-the lighter amused voice was Diana's-"that he might have been born with that smirk. Perhaps it's a disability he's had to learn to cope with, like a withered arm. You'd be quite sympathetic if that were the case."

Anne gave her throaty laugh. "The only disabilities that idiot has are both in his trousers."

"Namely?"

"He's a p.r.i.c.k and an a.r.s.ehole."

Diana crowed with laughter and McLoughlin felt a dull flush creep up his neck. He trod softly to the communicating door, closed it behind him and knocked again, this time more loudly. When, after some moments, Anne opened the door, he was ready with his most sardonic smile.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"I'm looking for Mrs. Goode. Inspector Walsh would like a word with her."

"This is my wing. She's not here."

The lie was so blatant that he looked at her in astonishment. "But-" He paused.

"But what, Sergeant?"

"Where will I find her?"

"I've no idea. Perhaps the Inspector would like to speak to me instead?"

McLoughlin pushed past her impatiently and walked down the corridor and into the room. There was no one in there. He frowned. The room was a large one with a desk at one end and a sofa and armchairs grouped about a wide fireplace at the other. Pot plants grew in profusion everywhere, cascading like green waterfalls from the mantelpiece, climbing up lattice-work on one of the walls, dappling the light from the lamps on low occasional tables. Floor to ceiling curtains in a herringbone pattern of pale pinks, greys and blues were drawn along the length of the two outside walls, a royal blue carpet covered the floor, bright abstract paintings laughed merrily from the picture rails. Books in bookcases stood as straight as soldiers wherever there was a s.p.a.ce. It was a delightful room, not one that McLoughlin would ever have a.s.sociated with the tiny muscular woman who had followed him in and was now leaning her cropped, dark head against the door-jamb, waiting.

"Do you make a habit of forcing your way into people's private apartments, Sergeant? I have no recollection of inviting you in."

"We have Mrs. Maybury's permission to come and go as we please," he said dismissively.

She walked over to one of the armchairs and slumped into it, taking a cigarette from a packet on the arm. "Of course, in her house," she agreed, lighting the cigarette. "But this wing is mine. You have no authority to enter here except by permission or with a warrant."

"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, towering over her, conspicuously ill-at-ease while she, by contrast, was relaxed. "I was not aware you owned this part of the house."

"I don't own it, I rent it, but the legal position with regard to police entry is the same." She smiled thinly. "As a matter of interest, what possible reason had you for thinking Mrs. Goode might be in here?"

He saw one of the curtain edges lift as a gentle breeze caught it, and realised Diana must have left by a French window. He cursed himself silently for allowing this woman to make a mockery of him. "I couldn't find her anywhere else," he said brusquely, "and Inspector Walsh wants to speak to her. Does she live in the other wing?"

"She rents the other wing. As to living in it-surely you've guessed we all three rather muck in together. It's what's known as a menage a tross, though in our case, rather loosely. The average threesome includes both s.e.xes. We, I'm afraid, are more exclusive, preferring, as we do, our peculiarly-how shall I describe it?-spicy female s.e.x. Three makes for more exciting encounters than two, don't you think. Or have you never tried?"

His dislike of her was irrational and intense. He jerked his head in the direction of the main part of the house. "Have you corrupted her children the way you've corrupted her?"

She laughed softly and stood up. "You'll find Mrs. Goode in her sitting-room, I expect. I'll show you out." She led the way along her corridor and opened the door. "Walk straight through the main body of the house until you reach the west wing. It's a mirror image of this. You'll find a similar door to mine leading into it." She pointed to a bell on the wall which he hadn't previously noticed. "I should ring that if I were you. At the very least, it would be polite." She stood watching him as he walked away, a scornful smile distorting her lips.

Andy McLoughlin had to pa.s.s the library door to reach the west wing so he looked in to tell Walsh it would be a few minutes yet before he returned with Diana Goode. To his surprise, she was in there already, sitting in the chair Phoebe had sat in. She and the Inspector turned their heads as the door opened. They were laughing together like people sharing a private joke.

"There you are, Sergeant. We've been waiting for you."

He took his seat again and viewed Diana with suspicion. "How did you know the Inspector wanted to talk to you?" He pictured her outside the French windows listening to Anne Cattrell making a fool of him.

"I didn't, Sergeant. I popped my head in to see if you wanted a cup of coffee." She smiled good-humouredly and crossed one elegant leg over the other. "What did you want to talk to me about, Inspector?"

There was an appreciative gleam in George Walsh's eye. "How long have you known Mrs. Maybury?" he asked her.

"Twenty-five years. Since we were twelve. We were at boarding school together. Anne, too."

"A long time."

"Yes. We've known her longer than anyone else, I suppose, longer even than her parents did. They died when she was in her early twenties." She came to a halt. "But you know all about that from last time," she finished awkwardly.

"Remind us," Walsh encouraged.

Diana lowered her eyes to hide their expression. It was all very well for Anne to say don't let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds intimidate you. Knowledge itself was intimidating. With one casual reference, the sort she might make to anyone, she had rekindled the sparks of an old suspicion. No smoke without fire, everyone had said when David disappeared.

"They died in a car crash, didn't they?" Walsh prompted.

She nodded. "The brakes failed. They were dead when they were cut out of the wreckage." There was a long silence.

"If I remember correctly," said Walsh to McLoughlin when Diana didn't go on, "there were rumours of sabotage. Am I right, Mrs. Goode? The village seemed to think Mrs. Maybury caused the accident to get her hand prematurely on her inheritance. People have long memories. The story was resurrected at the time of Mr. Maybury's disappearance."

McLoughlin studied Diana's bent head. "Why should they think that?" he asked.

"Because they're stupid," she said fiercely. "There was no truth in it. The Coroner's verdict couldn't have been clearer-the brakes failed because fluid had leaked from a corroded hose. The car was supposed to have been serviced three weeks before by a man called Casey who owned the garage in the village. He was just a b.l.o.o.d.y little crook. He took the money and didn't do the job." She frowned. "There was talk of a prosecution but it never came to anything. Not enough evidence, apparently. Anyway, it was Casey who started rumours that Phoebe had sabotaged the car to get her hands on Streech Grange. He didn't want to lose his customers."

McLoughlin looked her up and down, but there was no appreciative gleam in his eyes. His indifference was complete and, to a woman like Diana who used flirtation to manipulate both s.e.xes, it was daunting. Charm was powerless against a stone wall. "There must have been more to it than that," he suggested dryly. "People aren't usually so gullible."

She played with the hem of her jacket. "It was David's fault. Phoebe's parents had given them a little house in Pimlico as a wedding present which David used as collateral for a loan. He lost the lot on some stock market gamble, couldn't make the repayments and they were in the throes of foreclosure at the time of the accident, with two small children, no money and nowhere to go." She shook her head. "G.o.d knows how, but that became public knowledge. The locals lapped up what Casey was saying, put two and two together and made five. From the moment Phoebe took over this house, she was d.a.m.ned. David's disappearance a few years later simply confirmed all their prejudices." She sighed. "The sickening thing is, they didn't believe Casey either. He went bankrupt ten months later when all his customers deserted him. He had to sell up and move away, so there was some justice," she said spitefully. "Not that it did Phoebe any good. They were too d.a.m.n stupid to see that if he was lying, she was innocent."

McLoughlin leaned back in his chair, splaying strong fingers against the desk-top. He flicked her an unexpectedly boyish smile. "It must have been awful for her."

She responded guardedly. "It was. She was so young and she had to cope with it alone. David either took himself off for weeks'at a time or made matters worse by getting into rows with people."

His eyes softened, as if he understood loneliness and could sympathise with it. "And I suppose her friends here deserted her because of him?"

Diana thawed. "She never really had any, that was half the trouble. If she had, it would have made all the difference. She went away to boarding school at the age of twelve, married at seventeen and only came back when her parents were dead. She's never had any friends in Streech."

McLoughlin drummed his fingers softly on the mahogany. " 'The worst solitude is to be dest.i.tute of sincere friendship.' Francis Bacon said that four hundred years ago."

She was quite taken aback. Anne used Francis Bacon quotes as a matter of course but they tended to be flippant, throw-away lines, tossed into a conversation for careless effect. McLoughlin's dark voice lingered over the words, rolling them on his tongue, giving them weight. She was as surprised by their aptness as by the fact that he knew them. She regarded him thoughtfully.

"But he also said, 'The mould of a man's fortune is in his own hands.' " His lips twisted cruelly. "It's odd, isn't it, how Mrs. Maybury brings out the worst in people? What's her secret, I wonder?" He stirred the photographs of crude death with the end of his pencil, turning them slowly so that Diana could see them. "Why didn't she sell the Grange and move away, once she'd got rid of her husband?"

For all her surface sophistication, Diana was naive. Brutality shocked her because she never saw it coming. "She couldn't," she snapped angrily. "It's not Phoebe's to sell. After a year of marriage to that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, she persuaded her father to change his will and leave the house to her children. We three rent it from them."

"Then why haven't her children sold it? Have they no sympathy for their mother?" He caught her eye. "Or perhaps they don't like her? It seems to be a common problem for Mrs. Maybury."

Anger threatened to overwhelm Diana. She forced herself to stay calm. "The idea, Sergeant, was to prevent David turning the house into ready cash and leaving Phoebe and the children homeless the minute the Gallaghers died. He'd have done it, too, given half a chance. He went through the money she inherited in record time. Colonel Gallagher, Phoebe's father, left instructions that the house could not be sold or mortgaged except under the most exceptional circ.u.mstances before Jane's twenty-first birthday. The responsibility for deciding whether those circ.u.mstances-princ.i.p.ally financial distress on the part of Phoebe and her children-ever materialise was left to two trustees. In the view of the trustees, things have never got so bad that the sale of the Grange was the only option."

"Was no other distress taken into account?"

"Of course not," she said with heavy sarcasm. "How could it have been? Colonel Gallagher wasn't clairvoyant. He did give discretion to the trustees but they have chosen to stick to the precise terms of the will. In view of the uncertainty over David, whether he's dead or alive, it seemed the safest thing to do, even if Phoebe did suffer." She glanced at Walsh to draw him back into the discussion. McLoughlin frightened her. "The trustees have always put the children first, as they were instructed to do under the terms of the will."

McLoughlin's amus.e.m.e.nt was genuine. "I'm beginning to feel quite sorry for Mrs. Maybury. Does she dislike these trustees as much as they seem to dislike her?"

"I wouldn't know, Sergeant. I've never asked her."

"Who are they?"

Chief Inspector Walsh chuckled. The lad had just hanged himself. "Miss Anne Cattrell and Mrs. Diana Goode. It was some will, gave you two ladies a deal of responsibility when you were barely in your twenties. We've a copy on file," he told the sergeant. "Colonel Gallagher must have thought very highly of you both to entrust you with his grandchildren's future."

Diana smiled. She must remember to tell Anne how she'd wiped the smirk off McLoughlin's face. "He did," she said. "Why should that surprise you?"