Winding Up the Serpent

by Priscilla Masters

  And as she looked at his face, so absorbed and alight with enthusiasm, Joanna remembered a conversation they had once had long ago.

  He had told her that he could usually tell the cause of death without making a single incision, simply by looking at the hands of a dead person: fingers clubbed with heart disease, distorted with arthritis, clutching in agony, mottled blue from poisons, nicotine-stained, cut or weathered, grazed in a fall, clutching a dozen clues beneath the fingernails. The list had been long and she had listened, half amused, until she had drawn a baptismal cross in wine on his forehead.

  ‘OK, clever clogs,’ she had giggled, and rolled to face him in the wide bed of a strange hotel. ‘So why mutilate the corpse at all by doing a post-mortem?’

  It had been one of their many warm, intimate, frank postcoital chats.

  ‘Literal policewoman,’ he had teased, wiping her hair away from her face. ‘For the girls and the boys in blue I must always prove it.’ He had kissed her and when his mouth was free had added, ‘Beyond reasonable doubt.’

  But she had known even then that it was the truth. Almost always he did know the cause of death by looking at his corpse’s hands. And she had lain her head on the springy hair that forested his chest and listened to his heart’s regular beating with fierce jealousy ...

  ‘So what about her hands?’ she asked, coming back to the present and picking up a pudgy hand with short fingers, nibbled nails spotted with nail varnish.

  He looked. ‘The sign of a slut,’ he said. ‘She spent a bloody fortune on desirable underwear and plastic surgery and didn’t even bother to put on new nail varnish.’

  He smiled and his green eyes met hers, so she knew he recalled that conversation.

  He took the hand. ‘Work roughened,’ he said, ‘but she liked to think herself a lady. She took a lot of trouble that night, apart from the nails.’

  ‘Just to die, Matthew?’

  He turned and looked at her. ‘You think suicide, Joanna?’

  ‘What else?’

  He left the table and washed his hands at a sink in the corner of the room, knocking the taps on with his elbows, peeling the surgeon’s gloves from his hands.

  ‘The scars were well hidden in hair lines ...’ He mused, rinsing his hands underneath the gush of water as he spoke. ‘... Natural creases, tucked away in folds of skin, but once I’d found the first one I had a good hunt. She’d had the lot: some face reconstruction, nose job, breast augmentation—’ He broke off for a moment and looked at her. ‘You must have noticed the hard, pointed breasts. Typical fibrosis following silicone implants. All her teeth were crowned,’ he continued, ‘with pearly-white porcelain. And the lumpy look to the thighs – they almost always get that following liposuction. Yes,’ he said again, ‘that was a very expensive corpse, Joanna ...’ He looked at her. ‘You realize we’re talking about somewhere in the region of...’ he stopped for a moment, mentally calculating, ‘eighteen thousand or so. Harley Street plastic surgeon. Some top-quality work there. She was well off for a nurse.’ He watched her carefully as he dried his hands on paper towels. She felt he was trying to tell her something.

  ‘She would appear to be comfortably off,’ she agreed cautiously, ‘for a nurse.’

  Matthew merely nodded. She looked carefully at his face. It still held that guarded, watchful look.

  ‘So now where?’ she asked.

  Matthew cleared his throat. It was a habit he had when he didn’t know what to say. ‘I can’t be sure,’ he said and she wondered why he sounded so uneasy. Was it purely professional embarrassment at being defeated by a corpse? True, she had never known him stuck before; but was it so very important? Something was bound to turn up through the laboratory tests.

  ‘There’s only one – unusual – finding. She’d sweated a lot.’ He looked at her. ‘Was the room very hot – overheated?’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘The windows were open. If anything, it was quite cool. And it certainly would have been last night.’

  ‘Well, the clothes were still damp.’

  ‘Did she have an infection?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing to support that at all.’ He grinned at her. ‘Coffee?’

  Joanna walked along the corridor with him to his office and sat, perched on the edge of his desk, while he filled in the post-mortem forms.

  ‘Mat,’ she began, ‘you realize this puts me in a tricky position. It means I have to put a full-blown murder investigation on hold. Discreet enquiries is about all I can get on with until you can find a cause of death.’

  He cleared his throat again. ‘Jo,’ he said, ‘if it’s any help to you I very much doubt it’s murder.’ He paused. ‘There is absolutely nothing to suggest it. I’d lay a bet on it that it was natural causes. Maybe she committed suicide. After all – she was a nurse. She would have had access to poisons.’

  ‘And would you lay that same bet in front of the coroner?’ she demanded.

  He was silent, his eyes evasive, and she knew the answer. He would preserve his reputation in tissue paper, hedge his bets and reserve judgement. So why was he trying so hard to convince her?

  ‘Well, to return to the facts,’ he said after a minute. ‘I’ll know more this afternoon when I get some results back from the path lab, and even more by the end of the week when the results run on the viscera come back from the forensic lab in Birmingham.’

  ‘Barbiturates,’ she said suddenly. ‘Sleeping tablets – the bottle I found on the bedside table.’

  ‘I’ve bagged up all the stomach contents,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a look what’s in there. I’ll know quite a bit later on today.’ He hesitated for a while, frowning, and she chipped in sceptically.

  ‘And the clothes, Matthew?’

  ‘I’m inclined to think she died naturally while inhabiting some personal make-believe land, some fantasy land of her own. Hence the underwear, the champagne, the perfume, and so on.’

  ‘So you noticed the perfume,’ she said quietly. ‘I might have known. But Matthew, if she died of natural causes why can’t you find them?’

  He had lovely eyes – green and very clear, fringed with thick dark eyelashes in spite of his blonde hair. Normally they held an honest, frank expression. Today they refused to focus on her. Instead there was a long, pregnant silence.

  ‘What about lunch?’ he said at last.

  No, Joanna prayed silently to an unseen god, digging her nails into the palms of her hands: help me say no.

  ‘We can visit the path lab after lunch, Joanna. If you were with me ... we could call in together.’

  ‘No, Matthew,’ she said gently, her prayer answered. ‘No. I have to report back to the station.’

  She heard the hurt in his voice and saw it in his eyes but she was glad.

  ‘All right,’ he said quietly, ‘if that’s the way you want it.’

  She picked up her handbag from the table. ‘Matthew.’ Her voice was soft, pleading. ‘It isn’t the way I want it, but it is the way it is.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, suddenly irritable. ‘I understand. But what have you found to replace what we had? Promotion?’ He was following her to the door. ‘Being an inspector – has that made up for it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Of course not, but at least I know where I am. At least what I have alone is honest. With you it was not.’ She bit her lip. ‘Jane haunted me,’ she said finally. ‘I hated her. It was all so deceitful. It took away my integrity. I began to despise myself.’ She paused, remembering.

  ‘Of course,’ he said bitterly, ‘now you’re an inspector I suppose your ... integrity ... is so important.’

  ‘It always was,’ she said, ‘but I overrode it.’ She stared at him. ‘But we both know it isn’t really anything to do with my promotion. It’s more to do with your wife.’

  Matthew Levin groaned. ‘Oh – so we’re back to that, are we – petty jealousy.’ He picked up his pad angrily. ‘I’ll let you have my report as soon as I’ve finished it. I’ll ring you
later with the rest of the results.’

  Joanna walked out, letting the doors swing backwards and forwards ...

  The day was warm and sunny and Joanna felt hemmed in by the small office, even with the windows open. She picked up her jacket.

  Mike was in the middle of eating a sandwich. He looked up as she stood in front of his desk.

  ‘How did the PM go?’ Pieces of bread sprayed out of his mouth on to the Daily Mirror.

  ‘He can’t find a cause of death.’

  Mike swallowed his lump of sandwich and washed it down with a noisy swig of coffee. ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Confused, in a mess.’

  She sat on the corner of his desk. ‘It’s difficult,’ she began. ‘If you know you have a murder investigation you get the lot... extra men, time, money, facilities. In this case, until I know one thing or the other we’re left in limbo.’

  He nodded and took another bite from his sandwich.

  ‘I wish there was something,’ she said. ‘Anything that might help.’

  ‘Your pet pathologist didn’t have all the answers, then?’ There was a tightening around his lips.

  She looked beyond him at the brick wall view through the window. ‘He didn’t have any of the answers,’ she said.

  ‘Oh dear.’ He yawned and folded his newspaper. ‘So what now?’

  ‘We’ll have to go back. Back to Silk Street – see if we can find anything there.’

  Chapter 7

  It was time to join the SOCOs and spend the afternoon hunting through the house in Silk Street, but Joanna wasn’t anxious to return. There was something unpleasant about the atmosphere – something cheap.

  It was as they drove along the main Leek road that they passed a sign on the left, pointing the way to the Willow Veterinary Surgery.

  On impulse Joanna touched Mike’s elbow. ‘Pull in,’ she said. ‘I’d like to see Ben.’

  Mike gave her a swift, pitying look. ‘Bloody typical,’ he said. ‘Illogical. What’s the point of going to see the dog? He can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘I know,’ she said frostily, but she was unable to explain logically why she wanted to see the Alsatian again – except that whatever had happened on Tuesday night he must have seen it. Perhaps he could even have prevented it. He had been closer to the dead woman than anyone she had yet found.

  Roderick Beeston was standing in the yard, in his jeans, wellies and green oilskin. His hands were deep in his pockets as he watched a dog vomiting. ‘Possible sheep worrying,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Farmer tried to shoot him – missed, thank God. It was a twelve-bore, double-barrelled job. Would have made quite a mess of this little chap.’

  He scratched his greying beard, his face set and angry. ‘Have you any idea, Inspector, what a mess this creature would have been in if the farmer hadn’t been drinking so much home-made parsnip wine he couldn’t stand up, let alone shoot straight?’

  ‘No.’

  He looked up then. ‘And what brings you here, Inspector?’

  But before she could answer, his attention was diverted by a quick movement of the dog’s flanks as he retched and vomited.

  Joanna paused while the vet peered at the vomit, found no sheep fur then grinned at the dog. ‘OK, Hannibal,’ he said, scratching the top of the dog’s head, ‘looks like you’re innocent. Good dog.’ He held the dog’s head as it retched again. ‘Good dog,’ he said again. Hannibal’s tail wagged feebly as his brown eyes met those of his deliverer.

  ‘Farmers shoot first, look for the evidence later,’ the vet said. ‘Damned good job you don’t do the same, Inspector.’ He gave a loud, explosive laugh but sobered up quickly. ‘I wonder who you’d have pointed your gun at over the Marilyn Smith affair.’

  Joanna opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it and said nothing.

  The vet turned his attention back to the dog. ‘This stuff makes them feel pretty grim,’ he said, tickling the dog’s proffered tummy. ‘But not half as grim as a bullet in the brain. Still ...’ his voice was indulgent, ‘nasty being sick, old thing. But it was worth it, wasn’t it?’ The dog’s tail wagged again, then he put his head down on his paws, exhausted.

  ‘Now then, Inspector, what can I do for you?’ He looked at her and she saw his eyes were very bright blue, intelligent and humorous, his eyebrows bleached almost white from the weather.

  ‘I came to see how Ben was.’

  The vet looked pained. ‘I’ve put him to sleep,’ he said quietly. ‘He was distressed when he woke up.’ He tugged at his short, neatly trimmed beard. ‘Marilyn spoke to me about him some time ago. She wanted him put down if anything happened to her. She felt it would be better for Ben.’

  He looked at Joanna defensively. ‘It isn’t unusual, Inspector, for a well-loved pet to be put to sleep when the owner dies.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do. But that’s what she wanted.’

  ‘She left instructions for Ben to be put down when she’d had him from a puppy?’

  The vet looked at her. ‘Ben was about a year old when she got him,’ he said. ‘A friend let her have him – couldn’t cope with such a boisterous dog.’ He smiled. ‘And Ben was boisterous. He was a wild dog in many ways. When he came round he was snarling and snapping. I honestly don’t think anyone else could have controlled him. He would have attacked us if we had let him out of his cage.’

  She left the vet’s with a feeling of pity for the dead Alsatian. Ben had been fine with his mistress. There had been no complaints of attacks. She had run her own check on the dog and he had a clean record. And his arranged destruction gave an unsavoury angle to Marilyn Smith’s character. She had cared about Ben, yet she had instructed that he be destroyed in the event of her death. Joanna climbed back into the car.

  Mike was watching her. ‘Did the dog bark out the name of the murderer in Morse code?’ His face was relaxed and mocking.

  Words of an old pop song flitted into her mind ... ‘You always hurt the one you love ...’

  ‘Ben’s dead,’ she said. ‘Marilyn had asked the vet to put him down if anything happened to her.’

  Mike was staring ahead. ‘If anything happened to her?’

  She was silent for a moment and he spoke again. ‘She expected it?’

  I don’t know.’

  He swung the wheel of the car. They were turning into Silk Street.

  ‘Beeston could have got past the dog,’ he said.

  She didn’t even feel the remark worthy of comment.

  As their car crunched up the drive Joanna took a good long look around her. The Astra sat in the drive, still parked where Marilyn Smith had left it the night she had died. It bore a violent green tape around it, left by the SOCOs following their check. So far they had turned up nothing – not one single hair that belonged to anyone but the dead nurse. Therefore, by the law of forensics, no one else had been there. Joanna looked at the car resentfully. Was the scene worth sealing off? Was there anything here that the house could yield ... one single piece of forensic evidence that would link someone – perhaps a killer – to this house? Or had she died alone?

  ‘I think we’d better impound it,’ she said, ‘until we have an idea of what we’re up against.’

  They walked slowly towards the front door. The front garden was not very pretty, mainly paved, with large tubs of waving daffodils and scarlet tulips. The dead nurse had been an enthusiastic if gaudy gardener. Joanna looked up. All four of the front-facing windows were UPVC with mock Georgian glazing bars, strips of gleaming white plastic cased within the two panes. Again the effect was expensive and bright. Putting together the value of the property with the thousands Matthew had said she must have spent on plastic surgery, trying to look beautiful, Joanna assessed the dead woman’s income as being far in excess of that of the average nurse. There was no evidence of hardship – no peeling paint, neglected window frames. The Astra in the drive was top of the range. And it was only a year old.
r />   The SOC team were sitting in the squad car, eating their sandwiches as Joanna opened the front door.

  ‘Found anything?’ She donned the paper suit and overshoes and one of them shook his head.

  ‘Not a bleedin’ thing,’ he said grumpily, then added,

  The clock struck suddenly. Joanna jumped then stared at it.

  ‘It’s uncanny,’ she said. ‘It always seems to strike just as we walk in.’

  ‘It’s the top of the hour, ma’am,’ Mike pointed out with a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

  She wheeled around. ‘I didn’t exactly mean that,’ she said. ‘The clock. It draws attention to itself. It simply doesn’t belong, does it? It isn’t gaudy or showy or bright. It’s something else.’ She frowned. ‘It doesn’t fit in with that ...

  ‘Painted tart we found upstairs?’

  Joanna was silent, angry with Mike for voicing thoughts she would not have uttered out loud. She pushed open the door and they moved into the sitting room. The bright, painted china dancing ladies stared at them with dumb eyes. Joanna picked one up.

  ‘About how much do these things cost, Mike, do you think?’

  ‘I can tell you exactly. One hundred and sixty-seven pounds fifty,’ he said grumpily. ‘I bought one for my wife’s birthday.’

  She set it down again and glanced around until her eye was caught by another incongruous piece. She crossed the room towards a small antique bureau, beautifully inlaid with a stag hunting scene, ivory, ebony and other pretty woods. She spotted the white dust of fingerprint powder on its surface.

  ‘Looks like the SOC officers have already been here,’ she said. ‘It’s a good surface. What did they find?’

  ‘The only clear fingerprints they found were Marilyn’s.’ Mike glanced at his notebook. ‘And that goes for practically the whole place.’

  She glanced at him. ‘Others?’ she queried.

  ‘Nothing recognizable. She did live alone,’ he said defensively.

  Joanna turned to him. ‘Mike,’ she said. ‘How many women do you know who live alone?’