The Ice House by Minette Walters Read Free Book Online Page A

stood ajar at the end. He could hear a deep voice-unmistakably Anne Cattrell's-coming from inside the room. He listened.
    "…stick to your guns and don't let the bastards intimidate you. God 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 assent. "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 prick and an arsehole."
    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 space. It was a delightful room, not one that McLoughlin would ever have associated 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 sexes. We, I'm afraid, are more exclusive, preferring, as we do, our peculiarly-how shall I describe it?-spicy female sex. Three makes for more