"Confidentially, sir," said Robinson after a brief hesitation while he contemplated Fred Phillips in the role of satanic stallion, "I've heard from a number of sources that you might know something about several used condoms we've found near the ice house at the Grange."
Clarke, he thought, looked positively murderous. "What sources?"
"A number," said Robinson firmly, "but I'm not going to divulge them, just as I won't divulge anything you say to me without your permission. We're in the dark, sir. We need information."
"To hell with information," said Paddy aggressively, thrusting his face close to Robinson's. "I'm a publican, not a bloody policeman. You're the one who's being paid. You do your own dirty work."
Ten years on the force had given Nick Robinson a certain wiliness. He tucked his pen into his jacket and got off the barstool. "That's your privilege, sir, but as things stand at the moment the finger's pointing at Mrs. Maybury and her friends. They seem to be the only ones with enough knowledge of the grounds to have hidden the body in the ice house. I'll guarantee that if we don't get more information, the three of them will be charged with conspiracy."
There was a long silence while the publican stared at the policeman. Robinson felt he ought to disapprove of Clarke-if Amy Ledbetter was right, the man was a highly sexed stud-but instead he found himself liking him. Whatever his sexual morality, the man looked you in the eye when he spoke to you.
"God damn it!" said Paddy suddenly, slamming a massive fist on to the bar. "Sit down, man. I'll get you a beer, but if you ever breathe a word of this to my wife I'll string you up by your balls."
McLoughlin was waiting at the entrance to the ice house when Walsh arrived with the plastic bag containing the shoes. "I was told you wanted to see me, sir."
Walsh removed his jacket and lowered himself on to the sun-baked ground, folding the jacket neatly beside him. "Sit down, Andy. I'm after a few quiet words away from the house. This whole damned thing's getting more complicated by the minute and I don't want any flapping ears around." He studied the Sergeant's drawn face with sudden irritability. "What's the matter with you?" he snapped. "You look terrible."
McLoughlin transferred his wallet and loose change from his rear trouser pockets and sat down at a short distance from his boss. "Nothing," he said, trying without success to find a comfortable position for his legs. He regarded the other man through half-closed lids. He could never decide whether he liked or disliked Walsh. The Inspector, for all his irascibility, could surprise with a kindness. But not today.
He looked across at Walsh and saw only an insignificant, skinny man, playing tough because the system allowed it. He was tempted to make the Inspector a free gift of his assault on Anne Cattrell that morning just to see his reaction. Would he bark? Or would he bite? Bark, McLoughlin thought with amused contempt. Walsh was no more able to face an unpleasantness than the next man. It would be different, of course, when she put in her written complaint. Then, the machinery of justice would roll and action would be as mechanical as it was inevitable. His certainty that this would happen lifted rather than depressed him. The cut would be clean and final, so much cleaner and so much more final than if he administered it himself. He even felt a stirring of anger against the woman that she hadn't delivered the blow already.
Walsh finished summarising the pathologist's report. "Well?" he demanded.
The shutter clicked maddeningly in McLoughlin's brain. He stared at Walsh with vacant eyes for a moment, then shook his head. "You say he's exploring the possibility of mutilation. He's not sure yet?"
Walsh snarled sarcastically. "Won't commit himself. Claims he hasn't enough experience of eaten bodies. But it's a damned odd rat that chews selectively on the only two fingers Maybury had missing."
"You'll have to tie Webster down on that," McLoughlin pointed out thoughtfully. "It makes a hell of a difference to the case if there was no mutilation." Dreadful black-and-white footage of Mussolini's corpse, strung by its feet from a lamppost after an angry mob had emasculated it, floated into his mind. Violent, angry, hating faces, jeering their revenge. "A hell of a difference," he said quietly.
"Why?"
"It's less likely to be Maybury."
"You're as bad as Webster," growled Walsh. "Jumping to bloody conclusions. Let me tell you, Andy, that body is more likely to be Maybury's than anyone else's. It is a statistical improbability that this house should be the centre of two unconnected police investigations in ten years, and it is a statistical probability, as I've said all along, that his wife murdered him."
"Even she couldn't murder him twice, sir. If she did it ten years ago, then it wasn't him in the ice house. If it was him in the ice house, then, by God, she's had a raw deal."
"She brought it on herself," said Walsh coldly.
"Maybe, but you've let Maybury grow into an obsession with you, and you can't expect the rest of us to chase red herrings just to prove a point"
Walsh poked around amongst the folds of his jacket for his pipe. He stuffed it in thoughtful silence. "I've got this gut feeling, Andy," he said at last, holding his lighter flame to the tobacco and puffing. "The moment I saw that mess yesterday, I knew. Found you, you bastard, I said to myself." He looked up and caught McLoughlin's eye. "OK, OK, lad, I'm not a fool. I'm not about to tie you all down because of my gut feeling, but the fact remains that the blasted body is unidentifiable. And why? Because someone, somewhere, doesn't want it identified, that's why. Who took the clothes? Where are the dentures? Why no fingerprints? Oh, it's been mutilated all right, and it was as likely to be mutilated because it was Maybury as because it wasn't."
"So where do we go from here? Missing persons?"
"Checked. Our area, anyway. We'll go further afield if necessary, but on the evidence so far a local connection seems probable. We've one likely candidate. A Daniel Thompson from East Deller. The description matches very closely and he went missing around the time Webster thinks our man was killed." He nodded to the shoes in the plastic bag. "When he disappeared, he was wearing brown lace-ups. Jones found these in the woods adjoining the farm."
McLoughlin whistled through his teeth. "If they're his, is there anyone who can identify them?"
"A wife." Walsh watched McLoughlin push himself awkwardly to his feet. "Not so fast," he snapped petulantly. "Let's hear how you got on. You spoke to Miss Cattrell? Learn anything?"
McLoughlin plucked at the grass beside him. "The Phillipses' real name is Jefferson. They were sentenced to five years each for the murder of their lodger Ian Donaghue who buggered and killed their son. He was an only child, twelve years old, born when Mrs. Jefferson was forty. Miss Cattrell arranged their employment here." He looked up. "They're a possibility, sir. What they've done once, they might do again."
"Different MO. As far as I remember, they made no secret of Donaghue's execution, even carried out a mock trial in front of his girlfriend and hanged him when he confessed. She was a star witness in their defence, wasn't she? It doesn't square with this murder."
"Maybe," said McLoughlin, "but they've proved they're capable of murdering for revenge and they're pretty attached to Mrs. Maybury. We can't ignore it."
"Have you questioned them yet?"
McLoughlin winced. "Up to a point. I had her in after Miss Cattrell. It was like trying to prise information out of an oyster. She's a cantankerous old biddy." He pulled his notebook out of his shirt pocket and riffled through the pages. "She let slip one thing which struck me as interesting. I asked her if she was happy here. She said: 'The only difference between a fortress and a prison is that in a fortress the doors are locked on the inside.' "