Winding Up the Serpent (13 page)

Joanna felt depressed. ‘Her sleeping tablets, Mike. They were capsules.'

He nodded. ‘I thought they might be.' He leaned across, picked up the phone. ‘I'd better ring them, let them know we found sleeping tablets in the bedroom.'

She picked up the page headed Stomach Contents and one phrase leapt out at her. ‘Red and yellow,' she said quickly. ‘The capsules we found by the bed were black and green.'

‘That's strange.' Mike frowned. ‘Are you sure?'

She nodded.

‘But they didn't find any lethal blood levels,' he mused. ‘Small amounts of barbiturate – that's all – that and some champagne. And why take barbiturates if you're waiting for a lover?' His dark eyes fixed on hers. ‘I would have thought it would be the last thing you'd want – to fall asleep.'

‘But it's something,' Joanna said slowly. ‘Something unusual – something that didn't belong in the house. It's the very first thing.' She looked at him. ‘You know how these things develop, Mike. Get the SOCOs to look through their records for a bottle of capsules red and yellow.'

It was late by the time they had finished writing reports and Joanna knew it was Mike's night at the gym. So it was tentatively that she asked him to call in at the funeral parlour with her on the way home.

‘Please,' she said. ‘I won't take very long. I only want to ask him a couple of things.'

He looked grumpily at her. ‘Are we going to interview every single bloody patient?' he asked.

‘No – not all.'

‘So what's so special about him?'

She picked up her jacket. ‘I almost daren't use the word “feeling”.'

‘It's only because he's an undertaker – wears black, connected with death.'

‘No, Mike,' she said. ‘He called in to see her regularly, for no obvious reason. I have to know. What was she blackmailing him about?'

He left still unconvinced.

The chapel of rest was panelled in light oak, a small altar at one end, flowers on a tall pedestal, four rows of plush-covered chairs.

Joanna watched the undertaker curiously. ‘How well did you know Marilyn?' She purposely used the nurse's Christian name to familiarize the relationship, but Paul Haddon merely blinked.

‘You mean Sister Smith?'

‘Yes.' She let her voice linger with implication.

‘Hardly at all.'

His jacket strained over a small pot belly, fastened by only one of four buttons. ‘I was just one of her patients,' he said. ‘I didn't know her – not personally.'

‘What did you attend for, so regularly?'

He blustered. ‘That's a professional secret.'

He had an unattractive mouth, Joanna thought. Slack and moist; the lower lip hung down as he talked.

‘In a murder trial there aren't any secrets – professional or otherwise, Mr Haddon,' she said. Joanna was glad Mike was with her. The undertaker's pale face and dark, unreadable eyes were making her feel uncomfortable in this cold, uneasy place.

‘I have high blood pressure. I had to see her every month.'

Joanna nodded. ‘You had to see her, Mr Haddon, but it was bugger all to do with your blood pressure.'

She decided to go for the full frontal attack. ‘What was she blackmailing you about?'

The effect on Paul Haddon was startling. His eyes bulged, his face drained of blood. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down furiously. He opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out but a strangled sob. He grasped the back of one of the chairs and slumped on to it gratefully.

‘No right,' he gasped, when he could speak. ‘Not true ... not true.'

She felt almost sorry for him. ‘Did you kill her, Mr Haddon?'

Now he looked terrified. Vigorously he shook his head. ‘No ...' he said. ‘No ... No. Not me.'

‘Then who?'

They were the first words Mike had spoken since they had arrived. She had known he was uneasy here. Now she looked at him. His face was set and hard. She didn't need to convince him any more. Marilyn Smith had been murdered. The questions were twofold: how, and by whom?

She turned her attention back to the undertaker.

‘I don't know...' He was having trouble breathing. ‘I don't know.'

‘I should go and see a decent doctor if I were you.' Mike's voice was hard and unsympathetic. He didn't look at Joanna.

Paul Haddon gave a feeble smile. It made him seem even more repulsive.

Mike was watching her hands on the wheel. ‘What on earth are you going to tell her?'

Joanna sighed. ‘I know what I'm not going to tell her,' she said, keeping her eyes on the car in front. ‘I'm not going to tell her her daughter spun a story that she'd died five years ago.'

She looked at Mike quickly. ‘Can you imagine how hurt she would feel?' She sighed again. ‘Damn it, Mike, this has to be the shitty end of the job, telling someone that we have no idea how her daughter died. She's bound to feel upset. I'm just glad it wasn't us who had to tell her that Marilyn's dead.' She frowned. ‘I feel we're failing.' Joanna swerved to miss a car that pulled out without indicating.

‘Bastard,' Mike muttered.

Joanna smiled and turned her face slightly so Mike missed her amusement. ‘Ghosts don't write letters, Mike. Of course she's alive. Ghosts don't bark either,' she said.

He gave her a quick glance. ‘Mrs Shiers?'

She nodded. ‘She rings up about three times a day. She's driving everyone mad.'

‘It's a guilty conscience,' he said.

She looked at him. ‘Is it?'

He gave a strangled laugh. ‘You don't believe that crap about ghost dogs?'

‘No,' she said quickly. ‘Of course not.'

‘So it's in her mind, isn't it? Guilt about her husband.'

‘The
Marie Celeste
was moored off Anglesey,' she said. ‘It was there for a few years.'

‘Has anybody seen it recently?'

‘The local police are investigating.'

‘Damn.' Mike swore as a chain of brake lights suddenly flashed on.

Joanna slowed down and just as quickly the traffic speeded up again.

Mike glanced down at the letter. ‘So where did the money come from?' He gave her a quick glance. ‘Everyone says it was left her by her mother.'

Joanna tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘My guess is blackmail ... We have a long list. Take your choice. Evelyn ... our friend the undertaker. Then there's your friend – Grenville Machin, the antique dealer. We haven't even begun to investigate him. And Dr Wilson has been less than truthful.'

Mike gave an explosive laugh. ‘You're not bloody short of suspects,' he said. ‘But we don't know how she died. Your pathologist hasn't come up with anything very clever, has he?'

‘He isn't
my
pathologist,' she said crossly. Had she not been driving she would probably have stamped her foot right now. But the truth was she knew she would have to speak to Matthew again. She'd been putting it off.

‘Mike ...' She gave him a swift glance. ‘If it is Machin, this case might be your chance to nail him. And you know how thorough these investigations need to be.' She gave him a quick grin. ‘We've got an excuse now to look a little deeper into the affairs of our friend. Besides ...' she said gaily, ‘I'm looking forward to meeting him.'

The thought seemed to amuse Mike. He gave a deep chuckle.

‘Well,' she said, ‘he's the only person involved with Marilyn to have any large amounts of suspect money. Didn't you say he owns that huge house on the Longley Road?'

Mike nodded.

‘Well, just think of it, Mike. Think of Marilyn's lifestyle ... That house, the antiques, the plastic surgery – everything. We're talking about a lot of money here. It has to have come from him.'

‘What about the others?'

‘No real sign of wealth.' She paused. ‘I mean – how much money do you think she could have squeezed out of Evelyn? Not much. Haddon?' She made a face. ‘Not a rich man. But our friend Machin ...' She looked at him excitedly. ‘He's already been had up for attempted murder ...'

Mike grinned. ‘Yes,' he said slowly. ‘You're getting me quite excited. I'd love that. Nail him for murder.'

But Joanna held up her hand. ‘We haven't got evidence of murder yet,' she said, ‘let alone proof that he did it. I'm still waiting for further reports from Dr Levin.'

Mike was silent for a moment and she knew exactly where his thoughts were taking him. She gave him a quick glance and he caught her eye. She knew until they had squared this one they had no hope of a trusting working relationship.

Mike cleared his throat. ‘You can call him Matthew,' he said. ‘I know you know him at least well enough for that.'

She was silent, embarrassed, until he spoke again.

‘It hasn't made it any easier, you know – working under a woman and knowing more about her than I ought to.'

‘We were lovers. We're not any more. That's all there is to it,' she said simply.

He chewed his lip. ‘I don't expect his wife feels like that. My wife doesn't like it much either – having it off with married men.'

She felt herself flush. Caught out. ‘Well he's still with his wife,' she said bitterly. ‘So it hasn't done them that much harm.'

‘How do you know?'

It was Mike who changed the subject. ‘You're sure the uniformed men have already told her?'

She nodded. ‘Yes, and warned her we would be along today.'

She was silent again and after a few minutes he spoke again.

‘Are you convinced Marilyn was killed?'

She nodded. ‘Even more than I was.'

‘On the strength of one capsule?'

‘That may be all we've found so far. There's more, I'm sure of it. There are too many unanswered questions, Mike. And even when I get satisfactory answers or Matthew discovers a good big blood clot somewhere I'll still be suspicious. I don't think I'll believe she died alone, in bed, of natural causes even if they find something
really
convincing. Mike, I believe she was blackmailing someone – possibly more than one person, and we both know who one of them probably was. In fact,' she said, ‘once we've spoken to Mrs Smith I quite look forward to meeting your Mr Machin. But I don't think we're anywhere near the truth about this case. I think she was murdered quite cleverly by someone who had knowledge and access to her home.'

‘And what about the dog?'

‘If Marilyn let the person in he might have accepted him – or her.'

‘But that's pretty unlikely, from what we know of Ben. Not even a bark? What about the stuff the vet had?' Mike asked.

She shook her head. ‘It's on a small trial,' she said. ‘There are only a couple of vets in the country trying it out. And all the canisters are accounted for. It's better guarded than heroin. Besides ... he did a post-mortem on Ben. He wasn't drugged, Mike.'

She sighed. ‘Sordid things, aren't they, murders? Always accidents and small reasons. Always the same ones – money, sex, revenge – same old merry-go-round. Roll up, take your pick. Mix them up a little, shake them, but it's always the same few reasons.'

He glanced at her. ‘I do believe, madam,' he said formally, ‘that your promotion has made you cynical.'

‘Mike!' She almost exploded. ‘When we're alone call me Joanna – please. We're going to have to work together, probably for several years, in difficult and close circumstances. You already know my innermost secrets – ones I bloody well wish you didn't know. For God's sake, call me Joanna.'

He half smiled. ‘OK, then, Joanna.'

She guided the car towards the M5 turn-off, then settled down comfortably at seventy miles an hour.

A car cut in front of them from the outside lane and she pointed. ‘Look at that for rotten driving.'

Mike grimaced. ‘Woman driver,' he grunted.

She cast him a look. ‘What happened to new man, Mike?' she asked suddenly. ‘To the abolition of sexual discrimination inside the police force? Why can't you just accept the opposite sex? What's so damned different about us?'

‘I do accept you,' he protested, and she smiled. His bull neck was fierce red.

They were quiet for the next few miles but she could sense Mike was building up to say something. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was debating whether to risk it. Eventually he did.

‘I'll tell you something,' he paused, ‘Joanna. I'll tell you why I object to women in the police force. They aren't equal – that's why. When you get a flat tyre it's the bloody men who come and change the wheel. When you have to go out on a call you never send a woman police officer on her own. Rape victims, women – have to have a woman officer. Violent situations – always spare the woman. We have to mollycoddle you, make allowances all the time for your sex. That makes me angry. I have nothing against you personally. In fact, if you want to know the truth I quite like you. For what you are I think you've your head screwed on. But I think women want it all ways. They even,' he carried on angrily, rising to his subject, ‘want a special MP now for women's rights. What about men's rights? – that's what I want to know. Positive discrimination – that's what it is, Joanna. That's what men are suffering these days. We don't know where we are any more.'

She took in a deep breath. ‘I quite agree,' she said calmly. He stopped in his tracks. ‘You do?'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘I do. You're right, Mike. Things have tipped too far. Men are confused, but I'm not personally responsible. Women have had the vote for less than a hundred years. Give us time. Let us settle down. We've not long left the kitchen sink behind. We're still adjusting. Don't be hard on us. In a few years we won't need to be either strident and masculine or bimbos. We'll be well-adjusted citizens.' She grinned at him, glad he had voiced his prejudices. ‘Until then, Mike, let's work together and I will try not to use my sex to manipulate you. And you don't resent me – or my sex – if we get it wrong sometimes? All right?'