Winding Up the Serpent (22 page)

The police cars swung in. Figures ran out. Joanna and Mike stood up.

‘Shit.'

‘The bloody fuzz.'

‘Drop the damned ...'

It was over in minutes. Two figures tried to run and were felled by waiting police in the next field. Machin stood bemused in the middle of the courtyard. He glared at Joanna as she and Mike emerged from the shadows.

‘Someone told you,' he accused. ‘You didn't just happen to be here. Who told you?'

‘I did, you bastard.'

Machin wheeled around. ‘Patty. Patty?'

Joanna almost felt sorry for him.

He stared at the tiny figure in skintight jeans, fringed cowboy boots and a mock-leopardskin coat.

She climbed neatly out of the cab and planted herself in front of Machin. ‘I shopped you, you bastard,' she said. ‘I'm glad I did. Perhaps that'll pay you back.'

Machin looked astounded. ‘Patty – love,' he held out his arms to her. ‘What's going on?'

She grinned at him, hands on hips. ‘I bet you wondered how that nurse knew so much about you,' she said. ‘I'll tell you a little story, shall I? I expect you've got plenty of time. No more rushing around now. I think the police will want to detain you.

‘A nurse from Leek went on a little holiday,' she said. ‘And she met my sister who owns a bar out there. Remember Astrid Lucas, Gren?'

Machin made no response and she continued.

‘My sister. And little Robbie just happens to be my favourite nephew. So when people start threatening him I get upset.'

Machin gazed at her for a long time before he recovered himself. When eventually he spoke his voice was firm and threatening.

‘Don't go to sleep at night, Patty, my little humming bird,' he said softly. “Cause one night you'll wake up and I'll be standing there. And I won't have a bloody Durex in my hand neither.'

She gave a short laugh. ‘You won't be standing anywhere near me, Gren, for a very long time.' She put her face close to his. ‘When you do stand near me, my dear, you'll need a zimmerframe to hold you up.' She let out another peal of laughter and turned to the watching police. ‘Like my wit?'

No one answered. There was something both brave and pathetic about the tiny figure. Joanna feared for her safety. People like Patty Brownlow were vulnerable. Machin's net would spread wide.

Mike cautioned the six men they had rounded up and

Joanna levered the top off one of the crates. As expected, they were full of china figures.

‘Inspector ...' One of the uniformed boys was shining his torch in the cab of the second lorry. She peered inside and wondered that anyone could possibly be so careless. Under the seat were stored plastic carrier bags containing the catch she had hoped for. Heroin, resembling poor-quality Demerara sugar, packed in plastic bags ... pounds of it.

Now she permitted herself to smile at Mike.

‘Got him,' she said.

She watched Matthew take the stand at the inquest and give his evidence.

‘On further examination I discovered a hypodermic mark on the deceased's right foot between the second and third digit.'

The coroner looked at him over half-moon spectacles. ‘You had not noticed it at the first post-mortem, Dr Levin?'

‘No, sir,' he said.

Mike leaned across. ‘He missed it first time. Might have helped us a bit if he'd got on to it a bit quicker.'

She scowled at him.

‘And when you found it, what did you infer from the hypodermic mark, Doctor?'

‘I believed Marilyn Smith had been administered an injection.'

The coroner raised his eyebrows.

‘I took a biopsy from around the injection site and on analysis the sample was discovered to contain abnormal amounts of insulin.'

The coroner cleared his throat. ‘Interesting ...' he mused. ‘Don't think I've ever come across this one before.'

Mike dug her in the ribs. ‘Joanna,' he said. ‘Look who's here.'

She turned round and met the blackcurrant eyes of Marilyn's mother. She frowned. ‘Vivian Smith's travelled all this way?' She met Mike's eyes. ‘I wonder why,' she said. ‘She doesn't pretend there was much love lost between them.'

She turned round again. Mrs Smith was staring at her as though she wanted to speak. She nodded and turned back to Matthew.

He had almost finished giving evidence ... blood insulin levels, time of death ... Absence of indication of sexual intercourse. Neatly he concentrated on the facts. Joanna had watched him countless times in court give such evidence. It always sounded truthful – plausible. But she had heard Matthew sound just as plausible on the telephone to his wife, telling her he would be working late – again. His chin jutted out, he was sure of himself, confident. The expert pathologist.

But now it was her turn.

Her evidence was routine. Referring after each question to her notes, Joanna briefly described what she had found at Silk Street.

The coroner peered at her. ‘What were your initial thoughts, Inspector Piercy?'

She started. This was unusual. Coroners generally dealt in facts not opinions, and Konrad Fowler was particularly fond of reminding her of that.

‘I simply want to know who died, when and, wherever possible, how, Inspector. No need for you to make a drama out of events.'

From the witness box she met his eyes and he gave a slight, acknowledging smile. ‘Carry on,' he said.

She cleared her throat. ‘At that time,' she said, ‘I was unsure. There seemed no obvious cause of death …'

The coroner finished the sentence for her and addressed the court. ‘In the absence of a syringe or indeed an obvious source of insulin – the deceased not being a diabetic or in receipt of this particular drug – I have no option but to find the cause of death as being the result of unlawful killing.' He paused. ‘This is indeed a most unusual method of disposal ...' He adjusted his glasses and extended sympathy to family and friends.

Vivian Smith sat bolt upright, unsmiling, staring at Joanna's back.

Matthew walked up to Joanna as soon as the verdict was announced. He gave a weak smile. ‘Your first homicide.'

She yawned and tried to smother it. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I've been up most of the night.'

Matthew's eyes softened. ‘So I heard. On the local news. You trawled in a haul of villains last night.'

She nodded. ‘There'll be others,' she said, ‘to take their place.' She hesitated for a moment then spoke without meeting his eyes. ‘I'm going to have to ask you some more questions, Matthew,' she said. ‘I'm not happy about your statement.'

He tensed and then sagged slightly. He looked tired, as old and bowed as Jonah Wilson. ‘I see,' he said formally. ‘I suppose I could have expected that. Well ... as usual I'm all yours ...' He hesitated for a moment then spoke again. ‘You're creating havoc here in such a small town, Jo. Who will be next, I wonder?'

She watched him carefully. ‘I wonder,' she echoed.

He moved closer. ‘I heard another whisper,' he said. ‘Paul Haddon.'

‘We've tried to keep it quiet,' she said softly. ‘How the hell do you know about that?'

‘His mother rang,' he said, green eyes troubled and upset. ‘He got home in such a state.'

‘He was bloody lucky we let him go at all,' she said. ‘Have you any idea what he gets up to in that place?'

He put a hand on her arm. ‘Thank God I do not,' he said and she glared at him.

‘Well, I bloody well walked in on him,' she said, ‘and I don't think I'll ever forget the experience. Didn't you ever wonder about him, Matthew, after what you heard at college?'

‘But I never knew for sure why he was ejected,' he reminded her.

‘No,' she said, ‘but you had an idea. You might have kept an eye on him ... He became an undertaker, for God's sake,' she said. ‘After being disciplined for an act – with a corpse, for your information, Matthew. Mike rang the dean of the medical school. It was an obscene act with a body.'

‘I didn't know for sure,' he said defensively.

‘So you buried your head in the sand.'

‘Will you be pressing charges?'

‘I've filed a report to the CPS,' she said cautiously. ‘It's up to them what they do with it.'

‘It'll ruin him, you know.'

She was suddenly very angry. ‘Matthew. Whose side are you on? The necrophiliac's? You can't be that sick.'

‘God,' he said. ‘St George had nothing on you charging around putting wrongs to rights.'

‘Between you and me,' she said softly, glancing around the room, ‘I don't think we will press charges. I don't want to see it get out. It would cause too much upset. Personally, I hope it will be hushed up and Haddon cautioned and forbidden from pursuing his particular career. We'll keep a watch on him,' she added.

‘Here's to that,' he said, ‘and to your long string of successes.'

She gave a wry smile.

‘Excuse me ...'

She hadn't noticed Vivian Smith approaching from behind.

‘I'm sorry ... Mrs Smith ...'

Marilyn's mother pursed her lips. ‘I thought you'd want to know ... I thought you might be interested. I got a letter,' she said finally, pulling a brown envelope from her handbag. ‘She always sent things second class, at least to me she did.' Her eyes became pinpoints. ‘Mean, she was.'

Joanna eyed the envelope and invited Vivian Smith back to the station.

Once in her office she pulled on gloves and then slid the letter out of the envelope on to her desk. It was not long only half a page. It greeted her mother, mentioned the money enclosure, grumbled about one of the receptionists. And it enthused about the ‘new boyfriend'... a married man ... ‘It's funny, Mother ... how things turn out. And now I know. He's loved me all these years ...'

It was the writing of a happy woman who had eventually found love. It turned Joanna's stomach. She glanced at the finishing sentences.

‘So I went out, Ma ... went absolutely wild ... bought up the shop.'

And the last sentence was the most poignant of all. ‘I'll send you more next month. I promise...' It was signed simply: Love ... and a scrawled ‘Marilyn'.

And for the first time Joanna felt a lump of grief for the death of the nurse. She looked up at Vivian Smith. ‘Can you confirm it is her writing?'

Vivian Smith nodded.

Joanna handed the letter back to her. ‘Thank you,' she said, then as Vivian Smith hesitated she added, ‘There won't be any forensic evidence from this.'

Vivian Smith looked straight at her. ‘I wasn't thinking about that,' she said. Her beady eyes looked hard. ‘It was him – wasn't it? It was him who did her in?'

‘We think so,' Joanna said cautiously.

Vivian Smith swallowed. ‘It was murder,' she said, ‘wasn't it?'

Joanna wondered whether Marilyn's mother was at last beginning to grieve for her daughter – but the next sentence dispensed that thought.

‘When will I get her things? The house ... the car...' she said greedily. ‘They're all worth something. I'll have to sell them.'

Joanna was silent.

‘Well, I don't want to live up here,' she said defensively. ‘Cardiff's where I belong.'

It was a drive she had sometimes made in her imagination but nothing could have prepared her for the beauty of the old stone farmhouse where Matthew lived with his wife and ten-year-old daughter, Eloise.

They drove up the narrow, stony road bordered by fields of sheep and ranch-style fencing and Joanna watched with mounting tension. She felt sick. Her mouth was dry. For ten pence she would have asked Mike to turn the car round and drive back into Leek. But she didn't and they drove through a five-barred gate into a cobbled courtyard with barns in front and mounting steps to the side. On the top step sat a small black and white cat licking its paws and watching through narrow green eyes.

The house was built of warm mellow grey stone, covered with moss. And to Joanna's eyes on that late spring morning it looked like heaven. Daffodils swayed in a light, cool breeze, golden trumpets of the summer's dawn. She sat, mesmerized.

Mike dug her in the ribs. ‘Do you want me to come in with you?'

She sighed and shook her head. ‘No,' she said. ‘I ought to go alone.'

‘Don't compromise yourself ...' Mike warned. He looked worried.

She opened the car door. ‘I won't.' She smiled. ‘It's all right, Mike,' she said. She hesitated. ‘And I'll be some time. I don't expect this to be easy. And I don't want to leave until I've all the answers Matthew can give.'

He put a hand on her arm. ‘I'll do it if you like.'

She climbed out. ‘No,' she said. ‘I'll do it myself. But thanks anyway.'

He gave her a thumbs-up sign. ‘Why here, though, Joanna?'

She glanced around at the rural domesticity. ‘I'm hoping by coming here,' she said, ‘to shock him into telling me the whole story at last.'

The house was approached by a narrow path of stone flags. Joanna pushed open the wicket gate and walked up to the door.

It took courage to drop the knocker down hard enough to make a noise. Her first attempt bounced – soundlessly on the wood. The second clanged loudly enough to wake the dead.

Jane Levin opened the door. They had not met since the night at the restaurant but Joanna had never forgotten the ice-cold stare of those blue eyes and the pale, Scandinavian beauty of her blonde hair. Nor the tight line of her thin lips. She stared at Joanna.

‘You,' she said.

‘Detective Inspector Piercy,' Joanna said, cursing the quaver in her voice. She cleared her throat. ‘I'd like to talk to Dr Levin.'

Jane Levin looked down her narrow nose. ‘Couldn't you contact him at the hospital?' she said haughtily.