Winding Up the Serpent

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Winding Up the Serpent Page 9

by Priscilla Masters

‘Telephone,’ he said, then made a face. ‘Nutter ...’

  She picked it up. ‘I want to speak to’ – there was a pause – ‘Detective Inspector Piercy.’

  She recognized the wavering voice immediately. ‘Good evening, Mrs Shiers,’ she said. ‘It’s DI Piercy here. What can I do for you?’

  There was a sharp intake of breath, then the words came tumbling out. ‘I’m so frightened ... Please send someone round here.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Mrs Shiers?’

  ‘Please ...’ The voice sobbed. ‘Please send someone round. I heard the dog,’ she said. ‘I heard Ben ...’

  In spite of common sense telling her this was impossible, Joanna felt herself grow quite cold. Ben was dead. She tried to tell Evelyn Shiers. The dog had gone to the vet’s. He had been put to sleep.

  Evelyn was most insistent. ‘I heard him,’ she said. ‘Do you think I could have imagined it? I heard the dog.’

  The duty sergeant looked at Joanna enquiringly.

  She tried to make light of it. ‘Ghost dog,’ she said apologetically. ‘Better get a squad car round.’

  The duty sergeant chuckled and picked up the phone. He was going to enjoy telling this to his mates in the pub.

  Joanna picked up her bag. ‘Ring me at home,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

  Chapter 9

  She was about to run a bath when the phone rang.

  ‘There wasn’t a dog there. The place was deserted.’

  ‘No barking?’

  ‘It was quiet.’ The constable was speaking from his car phone. She could hear the crackle. ‘We looked all over – spent half an hour there. Nothing doing. No dog.’

  Joanna frowned. ‘And how was Mrs Shiers?’

  ‘Bloody hysterical,’ the constable said. ‘Doing her nut. We tried to convince her but she wasn’t having it. She was sure the dog was still inside.’

  The vague feeling of disquiet refused to go. ‘And the house?’

  ‘Deserted,’ he said. ‘No one there. We had a good look round. Nothing. Not another dead body or another fierce dog.’

  ‘What did Mrs Shiers say?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘She insisted it was Ben.’ He sounded sceptical. ‘Said she knew his bark.’

  Joanna heard an explosion of laughter in the squad car. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’ She replaced the phone, wondering whether it was possible to recognize a dog by its bark.

  The question seeped into her dreams that night and by morning she still didn’t know the answer.

  The house was still today – so still she knew it was filled with diaphanous memories. She wandered from room to room.

  ‘Stevie,’ she whispered. ‘Stevie ... Are you there?’

  She wandered into the kitchen to collect the baby’s bottle but Jonah must have hidden it again. She searched for it, pulled things out of drawers ... tea towels and hand towels ... spoons and plates. Saucepans and packets of cereal. Where was it?

  She walked through to the living room and smiled. Jonah liked it tidy ... all the toys put away. That was how Jonah liked it. Then up the stairs to run the child’s bath.

  She heard the chuckling as she reached the halfway step. It was always like this. She could hear Stevie. But then naughty Stevie would hide when she reached the top step. He sometimes hid in the nursery, so when she reached the top of the stairs that was where she headed. But when she reached the door with a pink rabbit on it she stopped, reached out to turn the handle, already knowing that it would be locked ...

  It didn’t improve Joanna’s mood that morning to have her leg pulled. ‘Heard the one about the phantom dog, Inspector?’

  She waited by the desk. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  ‘Bit the bugger on the bum.’ The duty sergeant exploded into giggles, joined by the two lads from traffic. She gave a quick smile.

  ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘She’s rung again.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Same thing, Martin?’

  He nodded. ‘Getting to be a right pest, this phantom dog.’

  The telephone rang and he jerked his thumb towards it. ‘That’ll be her now,’ he said. ‘Nine o’clock prompt.’

  ‘I’ll take it in my room.’

  The voice on the other end sounded hysterical. ‘I know it’s Ben,’ she sobbed. ‘I know the sound of his bark.’

  ‘Do you have someone who can come and stay with you?’

  ‘I don’t need someone. Just do something. Stop him barking. Please ... I know it’s Ben.’

  ‘Mrs Shiers,’ Joanna said soothingly. ‘Ben was put down. The vet couldn’t cope with him. He put him to sleep. Marilyn wanted it that way. She left instructions.’

  ‘Inspector ...’ Evelyn’s voice was panic-struck now. ‘Inspector ... I know it was Ben. I have lived next door to him for two years. I know the sound of his bark almost as well as the sound of my own voice. It was Ben.’

  Joanna promised to look into it and replaced the phone, then picked it up straight away. Roderick Beeston was on the line in a matter of seconds.

  ‘I know this probably sounds a silly question, Mr Beeston,’ she said cautiously, ‘but there is no doubt about it, is there? It was Ben you put down – wasn’t it?’

  ‘What’s all this about?’ His voice was deep and suspicious.

  Even to her the whole thing sounded illogical. She stalled for a moment. ‘Tell me, Mr Beeston,’ she said. ‘Is it possible to distinguish the sound of one dog from another?’

  ‘You mean – do dogs have individual barks?’ He paused. ‘That’s a good question, Inspector. Not one I would have expected the police to be interested in.’

  ‘I’m interested in anything that might have a bearing on this case,’ she said crisply.

  ‘Well now, I’m intrigued. The answer is – I believe so,’ he said, ‘provided you know the dog well enough. I think you can.’

  She was silent for a moment then said quickly, ‘Marilyn Smith’s next door neighbour has rung us six times in the last twenty-four hours, convinced she has heard Ben barking.’

  Roderick Beeston cleared his throat. ‘Now that is interesting,’ he said.

  ‘So I thought I’d check with you.’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ the vet said. ‘Ben’s dead. I scattered the ashes myself. On the roses, as it happens.’

  Joanna felt slightly sick. She thanked the vet and sat twiddling her pencil. As soon as she heard Mike’s voice outside she called him in.

  ‘I thought we were going to Cardiff today,’ he said. ‘I told my wife.’

  She ignored his irritation and told him about the phantom dog. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I make of it,’ he said. ‘Guilty conscience.’ He stared at her. ‘She’s having nightmares because she knows something we don’t. Now, are we going to Cardiff?’

  ‘This afternoon,’ she said. ‘I want to go back to the surgery. I want to find out a few more things about Marilyn. Mike.’ She suddenly stopped. ‘Do you think it’s possible Marilyn was blackmailing Evelyn Shiers over something to do with the disappearance of her husband?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But I can’t see her killing her husband.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘it wasn’t a killing. Maybe it was something else. Maybe, we should dig up the garden.’

  They put Constable Willis on the job to ask questions at the engineering company where Jock Shiers had worked until four years earlier.

  The foreman was a stout man with acne scarring. ‘I remember Jock,’ he said. ‘Good man – regular as clockwork. Jet black hair.’ He frowned. ‘Passion for sailing.’

  ‘Really?’ PC Willis raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes.’ The foreman grinned. ‘Had a boat called the Marie Celeste. Always thought it an unfortunate name myself but Jock had quite a sense of humour.’

  ‘You must have thought it strange when he didn’t turn up for work.’

  The foreman sighed. ‘Well,’ he said slowly. ‘I did and I didn’t. He
was a strange, unpredictable character. Often did weird things. So when Mrs Shiers said he’d decided to take off in that boat of his I wasn’t really that surprised – not really.’ He gave the PC a quick, curious look. What’s happened? Something funny going on?’

  ‘We’re just making enquiries,’ Willis said.

  The foreman gave a sceptical chuckle. ‘I’ve heard that one before as well,’ he said. ‘Don’t give me that. You’re wondering what’s happened to old Jock, aren’t you?’ He scratched his head then gave a sudden exclamation of enlightenment. ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘That dead nurse. Lived next door to them, didn’t she? Well, surely Mrs Shiers can tell you where Jock is, can’t she?’

  Willis picked up his helmet and the foreman followed him out. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You can tell me. What are you thinking?’

  ‘Just routine enquiries,’ Willis said, letting himself into the car. He drove off, leaving the foreman staring after him.

  Joanna sat patiently in the waiting room for the doctor to finish his surgery at eleven. There were still a few patients to be seen; Dr Wilson’s buzzer was busy, summoning the sick. Marilyn Smith’s buzzer was silent.

  At last the waiting room was empty and the receptionist called her through. ‘He’ll see you now.’

  She could tell from the receptionists’ hostile eyes that they were asking questions. Why hadn’t she tracked down the reason for Marilyn’s death? Why hadn’t she caught the killer – if there was a killer? Why was she still asking questions – and giving no answers? Why was everything taking so long? Even Dr Wilson looked irritated by yet another visit from the police.

  ‘What now?’ he said, then seemed to regret his abruptness. ‘Sorry. It can be difficult being a GP in a small town. It’s tricky dining with people one night and the next day peering into their insides. Besides ...’ He blinked. ‘Secrecy ...’ He looked at her then with bright, shining eyes. ‘Secrecy,’ he said again. ‘It’s so important. Secrecy must be preserved at all costs.’

  Joanna felt uncomfortable but she nodded.

  ‘You know ... it’s only now – since she died – that I realize. I hardly knew Marilyn at all.’ The doctor was watching her face very carefully. ‘Although we worked together – met every day for the past few years – I didn’t really know her. You see,’ he added, ‘we only really met at work.’ He reinforced this point a little too emphatically for her liking.

  Was it the nasty, suspicious police mind that made her think, ‘Doth protest too much’?

  ‘Like I said before, she was good at her job,’ the doctor continued.

  He dropped his eyes suddenly and Joanna knew he was not being straight with her.

  Why? What was the point?

  Again she felt uneasy. Of all the people who could best mimic a natural or puzzling death she feared doctors most. They had knowledge. They also had the means. And if Marilyn had been murdered, it had been a carefully concealed act.

  ‘Was she very fond of her mother?’ she asked. ‘Unduly upset at her death?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ the doctor said. ‘She had some time off for the funeral and to dispose of the house and things.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘I can’t say she seemed very upset.’

  ‘Was she depressed lately?’

  He shook his head. ‘No – she wasn’t.’

  She looked at him again and smiled encouragingly. ‘What sort of a person was she? What did she look like? Was she pretty?’

  The doctor looked at her. ‘Inspector,’ he said patiently. ‘You’ve seen the photograph. I wasn’t having an affair with my nurse. Why do you people have to be so suspicious?’

  ‘It’s my job,’ she said shortly. ‘And I’m fumbling in the dark, Doctor. I’m heading out in all sorts of directions ... working blind. And until I have a cause of death I can’t drop the case or direct my investigations towards something more relevant.’

  He met her eyes. ‘I sympathize, Inspector,’ he said, and she found herself thinking – as had no doubt countless previous patients – what lovely eyes he had, direct and fearless, honest but tired. He looked as though his life had been trying.

  ‘You never knew Marilyn alive, did you?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  He stopped for a minute, then said quietly, ‘If you had known her you would realize. Nothing – nothing that ever happened to her was inexplicable.’

  Joanna stared at him, puzzled. Taking advantage of the pause in questioning, Dr Wilson muttered something about house calls, stood up and left the room.

  She decided to tackle the receptionists again. They needed little encouragement.

  ‘All this fuss,’ said Sally venomously. ‘You know, she would have loved it – revelled in it. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she planned the whole damned thing.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Joanna said cautiously.

  Sally tossed her head in disgust. ‘Honestly,’ she said. ‘You said she didn’t have a boyfriend. Did anyone ever come to see her here? Friends?’

  It was Maureen who answered. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I never met any. No one ever came here for her except patients.’

  Joanna frowned. Except patients ...

  ‘Which patients came regularly?’ she asked.

  The receptionists glanced quickly at one another. ‘Lots of them ... diabetics and asthmatics, anyone with chronic disease.’

  She bit her lip, leaned forwards in her chair. Anyone who didn’t have a chronic disease?’ she asked.

  ‘Well ...’ Sally was floundering.

  It was Maureen who came to her rescue. ‘One or two,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A few people we did wonder about,’ the receptionist said. ‘The undertaker was one of them.’

  ‘Do you mean Paul Haddon?’

  ‘Every month,’ Sally confirmed. ‘First Thursday in the month.’

  ‘Very angry he was sometimes.’

  ‘Angry?’

  The receptionist glanced through the hatch into the patients’ waiting room. ‘He’d pace up and down there in a fury, getting redder and redder.

  ‘You want to watch it, Mr Haddon,’ I said. ‘You’ll make your blood pressure worse.’

  She paused. ‘Swore at me, he did. Nothing wrong with my effing blood pressure. Cheeky thing.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he had another illness?’

  ‘When Smithy came out I asked her. What’s wrong with that undertaker ...? She was that haughty when she answered. ‘Blood pressure ... What I say is, Inspector – one of them was lying.’

  Joanna made a mental note to speak to the undertaker. ‘Anyone else?’

  The two women looked at each other. ‘I don’t think there was much up with that antique dealer.’

  Joanna pricked up her ears. ‘Was he a frequent visitor?’

  ‘Few times a year ...’

  ‘And in the same bad temper,’ Maureen added. ‘There was more to those visits than met the eye.’

  Sally looked at Joanna. ‘Who’s had Ben?’ she asked. ‘I can’t imagine him with anyone but Marilyn. She wouldn’t even have a holiday abroad because of Ben.’

  ‘I’m afraid Ben’s had to be put down,’ Joanna said.

  Both women nodded regretfully.

  ‘She would have wanted that,’ Sally averred. ‘She told me once that if she died she wanted Ben put down. I thought it was a shame – told her so.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Joanna asked curiously.

  ‘Gave a little laugh and one of those superior smiles of hers. “Ben would rather be dead than live without me”,’ Sally mimicked.

  ‘Ben had no bloody choice,’ Maureen said bitterly. ‘Sadistic cow.’

  And this gave another ugly twist to the dead woman’s character. If denied life herself she wanted her beloved pet to share death.

  ‘And you’re sure you can’t recall her talking about any relatives?’ Joanna pressed.

  ‘She told us she was the las
t of a long line.’ Maureen dropped her chin on to her chest in a sceptical glance. ‘Believe that if you want. There was no touch of class about her. She just liked to pretend. Long line ...’ She grimaced. ‘Long line of whores.’

  Joanna’s mind was cast back involuntarily to the pink-tinged bedroom ... splayed legs ... Make-believe had played a large part in the dead woman’s life. The trouble was sorting out the truth from the lies. Somewhere in a haze of pink chiffon and cheap scent was a fact. Marilyn Smith was dead. Perhaps the visit to her origins this afternoon would be enlightening.

  ‘Do you know where she came from?’

  ‘Yes, I think it was Cardiff.’ Sally was frowning in concentration. ‘I’m sure she said it was Cardiff.’

  That – at least – was right.

  ‘She definitely wasn’t a local girl.’

  ‘I thought I could hear that bit of Welsh in her voice. Didn’t you think so, Maureen?’

  Maureen nodded vaguely. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.

  Joanna frowned. ‘What exactly did she say to you about her affair with a married man? Was it true?’

  ‘Who knows...?’ Sally’s eyes met hers. ‘Who knew with Marilyn what was the truth and what was a pack of lies?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Maureen said quietly, ‘I don’t think even she knew what was the truth and what was lies. I think she deceived herself so bloody completely she started to believe her own stories.’

  And the underwear, Joanna thought. An extension to the self-deception? She glanced from one woman to the other.

  ‘Can you tell me,’ she asked tentatively, ‘any more about relations between Dr Wilson and Marilyn? You told me before that she gave him no peace. Why didn’t he ask her to leave?’

  The two women looked at one another.

  ‘I’d see him look at her sometimes as though he could have given her her cards, but ...’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare.’ Maureen’s face was round and incredulous. ‘His wife wouldn’t have let him.’

  ‘Mrs Wilson?’ Joanna said. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘It was through her that Marilyn Smith got the job.’

  Joanna pricked up her ears. ‘Do go on,’ she said softly.

  ‘Mrs Wilson left years ago to have the baby,’ Sally explained. ‘It was all ever so sad. She used to be the nurse here. It worked very well. She and Dr Wilson always got on like a house on fire. And she was a wonderful nurse – ever so kind and sweet. Anyway, she left to have the baby and Marilyn came. They were old friends, you see. They were nurses together in Birmingham, where Dr Wilson trained.’

 

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