"Leave him be, sir." It was Fred's voice. "He's waited a long time for this."

Shocked beyond belief, McLoughlin watched Jonathan Maybury drive Peter Barnes against the wall and ram the shotgun into the boy's screaming mouth.

25.

Gap-toothed where the windows yawned, its finery ruffled by birdshot, the old house slumbered on, a silent witness to many worse things in its four-hundred-year history. Within half an hour, three patrol cars had arrived to ferry the culprits to the Station with PC Gavin Williams in firm but reluctant charge. "It's down to you, Sarge," he protested. "You should be taking them in."

"Nn-nn. They're all yours. I've some unfinished business here."

"What do I do about Maybury, Sarge?"

McLoughlin folded his arms and didn't say anything.

"Barnes is bound to mention it."

"Let him."

"Shouldn't we charge Maybury?"

"What with? Accidental discharge of a licenced firearm?"

"You'll never get away with that. Eddie, for one, knows it wasn't an accident."

McLoughlin was amused. "I think you'll find Eddie's somewhat disenchanted with Peter Barnes. Apart from anything else, he doesn't take kindly to being set up as a fall-guy for Barnes's warped sense of humour. He tells me he and his mates were looking the other way when the accident happened."

Williams looked worried. "What do I say?"

"That's up to you, Gavin. I can't help you I'm afraid. When the gun went off, I had my back turned, taking down the names and addresses of the intruders. After that I couldn't see anything for dust."

"h.e.l.l, Sarge!"

"I thought you were taking down the names and addresses of all the witnesses to the vandalism. It's standard police procedure in incidents of this sort."

The constable pulled a wry face. "And how do you explain Barnes's confession? I mean if it was just an accident why would he want to st.i.tch himself up? Jesus, Sarge, he was so b.l.o.o.d.y terrified, he was p.i.s.sing all over the floor."

McLoughlin clapped him amiably on the shoulder. "Is that right, Gavin? I couldn't see a d.a.m.n thing because of the dust in my eyes. So don't ask me what loosened his tongue, because I couldn't tell you, unless it was the shock of the gun going off. Explosions react on people in different ways. Left me temporarily blinded but with my ears working overtime. Some sort of compensation effect, I imagine. Couldn't see worth a d.a.m.n, but I heard every word the little weasel said."

Williams shook his head. "I was in a blue funk. I thought the doctor shot his b.a.l.l.s off."

So did I, thought McLoughlin. So did I. And so it seemed had Peter Barnes. Swept back by the violence of Jonathan's a.s.sault and numbed by the blast of the shotgun between his legs which had discharged itself harmlessly into Phoebe's drawing-room wall, he had burst into tears of self-pity as Jonathan rammed the barrel against his teeth and threatened to pull the second trigger. "I didn't mean to do it," he babbled. "I was creepy-crawling the house. I didn't mean to do it. I didn't mean to do it," he screamed. "She came back. The silly b.i.t.c.h came back. I had to hit her."

Jonathan's finger whitened on the trigger. "Now tell me about nine years ago."

"Oh, G.o.d, help me! Somebody help me!" The front of his trousers was saturated with urine.

"TELL ME!" roared Jonathan, his face white and drawn with rage. "Someone ransacked this house. WHO WAS IT?"

"It was my dad," the boy screamed, sobbing convulsively. "He got drunk with some friends." His eyes widened alarmingly as Jonathan started to squeeze the trigger. "It's not my fault. Mum's always giggling about it. It's not my fault. It was my dad." His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed on the floor.

Jonathan lowered the gun and looked across at McLoughlin. "We never knew who it was. Mum, Jane and I locked ourselves in the cellar and waited till they'd gone. I have never been so frightened in my life. We could hear them shouting and breaking all the furniture. I thought they were going to kill us." He shook his head and looked down at the twitching boy. "I swore I'd make them pay if I ever found out who they were. They used the house as a toilet and wrote 'Murdering b.i.t.c.h' all over the walls in tomato ketchup. I was only eleven. I thought it was blood." His jaw tightened.

McLoughlin shook off Fred's bear hug and started to slap the dust out of his clothes. "That was a h.e.l.l of a close shave, Jon. What happened, for G.o.d's sake? Did you trip on some broken gla.s.s or something?"

"That's it, Sergeant," said Fred impa.s.sively. "I was watching. Could have been quite nasty if young Jon hadn't kept his wits about him."

"Yes, well, do something with the flaming thing before it goes off again." He watched Fred take the gun, break it open and remove the second cartridge. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Barnes, get up and stop belly-aching. You're d.a.m.n lucky Dr. Maybury had the good sense to keep the barrel down." He hauled him to his feet and snapped on the handcuffs. "You're under arrest. Constable Williams will read you your rights."

The boy was still sobbing. "He tried to kill me."

"There's grat.i.tude for you," said Paddy, shaking plaster from his hair. "Jon nearly blows his own foot off to protect the little sc.u.m and all he can do is accuse him." He looked at Jonathan's stricken face, saw the obvious danger signals, and glanced across at Fred with a Gary Lineker finger to eye gesture.

Calmly Fred took the boy's arm and steered him towards the door into the hall. "I suggest we check on the rest of the house, sir. I don't like the idea of Miss Cattrell alone upstairs." He closed the door firmly behind them.

Half an hour, thought McLoughlin, and it seemed more like a year. He smoothed the stubble on his jaw and stared thoughtfully at the young constable. "I can't help you, Gavin. You're a good copper and it's not my place to tell you what to do. You must make your own decision."

The young man glanced through the drawing-room door where Fred was helping Phoebe restore order. "I agreed to do the patrols with you because of him and the old lady really. They're decent folks. Seemed wrong to abandon them to yobbos."

"I agree," said McLoughlin dryly.

He frowned. "If you want my opinion, the Chief Inspector's got some explaining to do on this one. You should hear what Molly has to say about when she and Fred first came here. The house had been totally vandalised. Mrs. Maybury and the two kids were living in one bedroom which Miss Cattrell and the lad, Jonathan, had managed to clean up. According to Molly, Mrs. Maybury and Jane were so sh.e.l.l-shocked by the whole thing they didn't know if they were coming or going. Molly says you could still smell the p.i.s.s even after three months, and the mould on the tomato ketchup had started to grow inwards, into the walls. It took them weeks to scrub the place clean. What's the Chief got against them, Sarge? Why wouldn't he believe them?"

Because, thought McLoughlin, he couldn't afford to. It was Walsh himself who, all those years ago, had created the climate of hate in which this woman and her two young children could be terrorised. For him, and for whatever reason, Phoebe had always been guilty, and his prolonged and hostile hounding of her had led inevitably to others meting out justice when he failed to prove it himself. "He's a small man, Gavin," was all he said.

"Well, I don't like it and I'm going to say something. It's not what I joined the Force for. I asked Molly why they didn't call the police in when it happened, and do you know what she said? 'Because madam knew better than to ask help from the enemy.' " He scuffed his foot shyly against the floor. "I'm planning to take Molly and Fred around and about a bit, no fuss, nothing like that, but I'd like them to know we're not all enemies."

McLoughlin smiled down on the bent head. If Williams wanted to wrap up his affection in the guise of community policing, that was fine with him. "I'm told she makes a d.a.m.n good lardy cake."

"b.l.o.o.d.y brilliant!" The young eyes sparkled. "You should try some."

"I will." He pushed the lad towards the front door and the waiting cars. "It won't do Eddie and his mates any harm to spend the night in a police cell, so book 'em and lock ' em up. If Mrs. Maybury wants to press charges in the morning, then we'll fill out all the sheets then. But I don't think she will. She laid the first stone of a bridge this evening."

"And Barnes?"

"Keep him on ice for me. I'll be in first thing tomorrow morning. I'll take his statement myself. And Gavin?"

"Yes?"

"He would have talked anyway. He couldn't have resisted it. He's too arrogant to keep quiet for long. You'll see. Tomorrow, without any pressure from me, he'll give us the whole works."

A weight seemed to drop from the lad's shoulders. "Yeah. Anything else I should do?"

"Bell his parents in a couple of hours, three o'clock, say, tell them we're holding their son, and get them down to the Station. But, whatever you do, don't let them talk to him. Keep them waiting through the dark hours till I get there. Just tell them he's confessed to ten years of persecution. I want them softened up."

Williams looked doubtful. "You'll never get a prosecution after ten years, will you?"

"No." McLoughlin grinned. "But for a few hours, I can sure as h.e.l.l make them think I will."

Paddy was another who took his leave reluctantly. "You'll have to come out of retreat now," he told Phoebe and Diana. "One way and another the door's been forced. It's a d.a.m.n good thing too. It's time you made a bit of an effort. Come down to the pub tomorrow. It's as good a place as any to start." He shook hands with McLoughlin. "Jack in the job, Andy, and join me in starting a brewery. It'll need a strong hand at the helm."

"I don't know the first thing about brewing."

"I wouldn"t want you for your brewing skills. That's my province. Organise the business, find me customers, get me whole thing rolling. You'd be good at that. I need someone I can trust."

McLoughlin grinned. "You mean someone Customs and Excise trusts? You're too anarchic for me, Paddy. I'd be a nervous wreck in three months, trying to remember what I was supposed to be hiding."

Paddy gave a roar of laughter and punched him on the shoulder. "Think about it, old son. I enjoy your company." He left.

Jonathan had retreated to an armchair where he sat in embarra.s.sed silence, studiously avoiding everyone's gaze. His anger had long since abated and he was desperately trying to come to terms with what he had done to Peter Barnes. He could find no excuses for his violence. Fred coughed politely. "If there's nothing more I can do, madam," he said to Phoebe, "I'll be heading back to the Lodge. The wife and young Jane will be wondering how we got on." Jane had been sleeping at the Lodge with Molly for the past few nights while Fred patrolled the grounds with McLoughlin and PC Williams.

"Oh, Fred," said Phoebe with genuine contrition, "I'm so sorry. I am so sorry. I never really thought you were one of them. It was the shock. You do believe that, don't you? I'll take you down for your teta.n.u.s tomorrow."

Fred looked at his bandaged hand, washed, disinfected, cried over and dressed by Phoebe and Diana amidst a welter of apology. "I think, madam," he said severely, "that if one more word is said on this matter I shall be forced to give in my notice. I can stand a lot of things, but I can't stand fuss. Is that understood? Good. Now, if you will excuse me?"

"I'll drive you," said Phoebe immediately.

"I'd rather the young doctor drove me, if that's all right. There's something I'd like his opinion on."

The door closed behind them.

Phoebe turned away to hide the dampness in her eyes. "G.o.d broke the mould after He made Fred and Molly," she said gruffly. "They never deserved any of this and yet they've stuck with us through thick and thin. I've made up my mind, Di," she went on fiercely, "I will brave that wretched pub tomorrow. Someone's got to make the first move and it might as well be me. Fred's been going there for years and no one, apart from Paddy, ever talks to him. I'm d.a.m.n well going to do something about it."

Diana looked at her friend's, furious face. "What, for instance? Hold your shotgun on them till they agree to talk?"

Phoebe laughed. "No. I am going to let bygones be bygones."

"Well, in that case, I'll come with you." She looked at McLoughlin. "Can we do that? It's all over now, isn't it? The Inspector was very curt over the phone but he seems to have absolved us."

He nodded. "Yes, you're absolved."

"Was it suicide?" asked Phoebe.

"I doubt it. He was a confused old man whose memories of Streech survived all his other memories. I think he made his way back here, looking for somewhere to die."

"But how could he possibly have known where the ice house was?"

"From the pamphlets your husband had printed. If you're touting for tourists, a garage is the obvious place to leave them. On paper, K.C. probably knew this garden better than you did."

"Still. To remember it after all this time."

"But the memory is like that," said Diana. "Old people remember every detail of their childhood but can't remember what they had for breakfast." She shook her head. "I never knew the man but I've always felt very bitter about what happened to Phoebe's parents and the lies he told afterwards. Still"-she shrugged-"to die like that, alone and with nothing. It's very sad. It may sound silly, but I wish he hadn't taken his clothes off. It makes it worse, somehow, as if he were pointing out the futility of living. Naked we're born and naked we die. I have this awful feeling that, for him, everything that happened in between was worthless."

McLoughlin stretched. "I wouldn't get too sentimental about that, if I were you, Mrs. Goode. We've only Wally's word for it that the corpse was nude. I think he's probably a little ashamed of himself. There's a world of difference between taking some unwanted, folded clothes and undressing a corpse to rob it." He looked at his watch. "Anything else?"

"We'd like to thank you," said Phoebe.

"What for?"

"Everything. Jane. Jonathan. Anne. Us."

He nodded and made for the door into the hall. The two women looked at each other.

"You will be coming back, won't you?" said Diana in a rush.

He laughed quietly. "If I have to, I will."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Phoebe chuckled. "I think it means that he wasn't planning on leaving. He can't come back if he's never gone, can he?"

The gun-shot and shouting had dragged Anne from a deep barbiturate-induced sleep to a lighter sleep where dreams enacted themselves in glorious Technicolor. There were no nightmares, just an endless parade of places and faces, some only half-remembered, which fluttered across the screen of her sleeping mind in surrealistic juxtaposition. And, somewhere, irritatingly, McLoughlin was tapping the double-glazing in the windows of a huge citadel and telling her it needed two people to lift it if they weren't to be buried alive.

She sat up with a start and looked at him. Her bedside light was on. "I dreamt that Jon and Lizzie were getting married," she said, isolating the one memory from the cloud of others which vanished forever.

He pulled up the wicker chair and sat on it. "Given time and room to breathe, perhaps they will."

She thought about that. "You don't miss much, do you?"

"That depends. We've caught your a.s.sailant." He stretched out his long legs and gave her all the details. "Paddy wants me to join him in starting a brewery."

She smiled. "Do you like him?"

"He's a b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"But do you like him?"

He nodded. "He's his own man. I like him very much."

"Will you join him?"

"I shouldn't think so. It would be too easy to get addicted to that Special of his." He looked at her through half-closed lids. "Jon's going back to London tomorrow. He asked me to find out if you wanted your love letters returned. He says he can try and fish them out before he goes."

She looked at her hands. "Do you know where he's put them?"

"I gather they're in a fissure in the old oak tree behind the ice house. He's a little worried about whether or not he can retrieve them. He asked me to give him a hand." He studied her face. "Should I, Cattrell?"

"No. Let them stay there." She raised her head to look at him. "When I'm firing on all cylinders again I'll take some cement and stick it into every crack in the oak tree so the d.a.m.n things never see the light of day again. I had to ask Jon to hide them-he was the only one there when Walsh took me away-but he's the last person in the world I want looking at them. Oh G.o.d, I wish they were love letters." She fell silent.

"What are they?"

"Photographs."