Winding Up the Serpent (5 page)

And then there was Ben. He had guarded his mistress and been loose in the house. And the interior doors had all been open. Whoever had come to Silk Street last night had been allowed in by Ben.

She stared out of the window, watching the froth of a flowering cherry dance in the breeze, and wondered. Yesterday Marilyn Smith might well have stood here and done exactly the same thing from exactly the same spot. She found the thought disturbing. This was always the worst aspect of a murder – connecting the victim with a living, breathing person. And now ... even more she found she could not stand the sight of those plump legs, splayed, ready for action. But she reached out and deliberately forced herself to touch the woman's arm. It was ice cold. Then she studied her face in minute detail. The skin was pale beneath the thick plastering of dark tan make-up that rimmed her face with a dirty tide-mark. Lilac eyeshadow lined into creases, and, most repugnant of all, the greasy red mouth, sagging open, giving a peep of surprisingly beautiful pearly-white teeth. Marilyn Smith had not been shy of the dentist. Joanna felt intrigued at this aspect of the dead woman's character.

‘Definitely no signs of violence.' Mike's return made her jump. ‘We've been right through the house. Everything's neat and tidy. No struggles. No blood anywhere.'

He carried on, ignoring her start. ‘Her doctor is coincidentally Sammy Bose, so he can formally identify her when he arrives. I checked with his receptionist. He's on his way.'

He looked at her curiously. ‘You look a bit green about the gills, madam. What's the matter? Don't like violent death?' He glanced meaningfully at the body. ‘Now some unkind people might say if you're not fond of violent death maybe you should have done something else for a living.'

She shot a glance at him. ‘Don't antagonize me, Mike. It won't help here.' She looked back at the body. ‘This isn't violent death, anyway. Sudden, yes, unexpected, yes, but violent, no.'

He looked at her curiously. ‘Does it upset you?'

She shook her head. ‘No. It isn't the sudden death, Mike. It's the utter ...' She struggled to find the right words to encompass the whole sordid atmosphere, still illuminated by the pink light from the two shades.

She suddenly snapped. ‘Switch those bloody things off,' she said. ‘It's the unexpectedness of it all.' She took a deep breath. ‘She didn't expect to die. I'm sure of that.'

‘Don't you believe it, madam.' He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Women,' he said.

She couldn't think of an answer.

‘Well...' He spoke again after a pause. ‘You've had five minutes alone with the body. Who done it?'

She ignored the jibe. ‘Who done what?' she said irritably. ‘I'm not sure anyone did anything.'

‘Tell me something, madam.' He grinned. ‘Do women go to bed alone in that sort of get-up? Do they?'

‘Well, I don't,' she said shortly.

His lips tightened. ‘Or is it only when they're waiting for a lover? Or don't you know?'

‘Let's wait for the doctor, Sergeant. Don't let your imagination run away with you.'

‘Or perhaps,' he continued, ‘it was the dog. Then again maybe it was suicide. Or then again, madam, it is just possible it was murder.' He smirked. ‘Have you looked for the knife in the back?'

‘It's all possible,' she said. ‘That's why we have postmortems.' She glanced out of the window and caught sight of a white van pulling up. ‘Let the photographer in, Mike. And, Mike,' she added, ‘we'll need the next of kin.'

The indignity of death, she thought, as she watched the flash bulb explode time and time again. ‘And don't forget the bed,' she said. ‘I want a picture of that too.'

She wanted to remember this room in all its sorry gaudiness. Whatever had happened needed light shining through it – not sunlight, flashlight, or moonlight as it would have had last night when Marilyn Smith died, but the full unkind glare of truth.

The sound of tyres crunched through gravel and Mike crossed to the window. ‘You'll soon have all your answers,' he said. ‘Dr Bose has arrived.'

Sammy Bose had qualified in Nigeria and arrived in Leek eight years ago. At first the locals were suspicious, but Sammy's genial behaviour plus a certain clinical acumen and an outgoing personality had soon secured him the unenviable burden of police surgeon, and he spent many nights drawing blood from motorists who assured everyone, including the brick walls of police cells, that they had not had one drop over the limit.

They heard him whistling tunelessly as he mounted the stairs three at a time.

‘Well, what have we here?' he said. ‘Hello, you two.' He grinned at them and stared at the figure on the bed. ‘I ...' He seemed lost for words.

Joanna stepped forward. ‘Dr Bose,' she said, ‘can you give us a positive identification? Is this Marilyn Smith?'

Dr Bose nodded, still speechless, then he swallowed. Yes,' he said. ‘I knew her quite well. But, God – who would have thought it? Excuse me,' he said. ‘It's a shock. I never expected to see her like this.' He touched the stiff black lace of the basque.

They stood around the bed while Sammy Bose stared at the corsetry.

‘God,' he said, ‘this stuff looks expensive.' Then he grinned suddenly and his dark eyes sparkled. ‘Well, who'd have thought it?' he said again. ‘I would never have guessed Marilyn had such exotic taste in ... Do they call this stuff underwear? Marilyn.'

He stared down at the still figure on the bed, her eyes looking at him dumbly from almost-closed lavender lids. ‘Underneath the navy blue nurse's uniform she was wearing this sort of garb? I can't believe it. She always seemed such a ...'

‘Such a what?' Joanna prompted.

‘I don't know.' The doctor rubbed his forehead with his two forefingers. ‘One just doesn't imagine, you know.'

He looked at Joanna. ‘She certainly had very expensive taste in underwear.' He touched the boned part that tapered the waist. ‘Isn't this real silk?' He scratched his cropped head. ‘I have to admit. I am puzzled. And this house,' he added. ‘It's better than mine. How did she afford it? She was not married. I thought of her as rather a dangerous old maid.' He looked apologetically at Joanna.

‘What on earth do you mean?' Her tone was sharper than she had intended.

‘I don't mean to be rude.' Underneath the dark skin Dr Bose flushed almost purple. ‘She was man mad,' he said simply, and quickly unpacked his equipment – gloves, thermometer, swabs.

The two police watched as the doctor made a thorough examination of the body. And it was thorough, hunting through her hair for signs of contusion, behind the ears, into the dead pin-point pupils, under and along the arms.

He looked at Mike. ‘Help me roll her over, will you?'

Moving the clothing out of the way, he took a rectal temperature, screwing up his eyes tightly as he read it. ‘She died round about sixteen hours ago. Let me see ... That takes us back to around eleven last night.'

Mike looked sceptical – never a believer in science, he preferred to deal in what he considered hard facts. ‘How accurate is that thing?' he said.

Sammy Bose grinned at him. ‘A corpse's temperature nears the surroundings' by the end of the first day. It's pretty accurate. Divide the difference in body temperature by twenty-four and you have it – to within an hour or two. Basic principle of taking a large piece of meat out of a slow oven. Takes a long time to cool. See?' He gave a quick flash of pink tongue and very white teeth.

Joanna was silent. She knew where she had heard that analogy before. She could remember Mat explaining it to her six – seven – months ago ...

‘We'll strip her completely, of course, at the PM, examine the clothing.'

Joanna nodded and watched him work until at last he stood up and she could begin to ask questions.

‘Cause of death?' she asked casually.

Sammy Bose looked up at her. ‘I haven't a bloody clue,' he said. ‘Could be anything.'

‘But you're her GP,' Joanna said.

‘Listen, lady—'

‘Inspector ...' Surprisingly it was Mike who said this, but Joanna felt annoyed rather than grateful. What did he think she needed? Some Sir Launcelot? She felt her mouth tighten.

‘Inspector ...' Sammy Bose grinned. ‘Sorry. I have to explain this. I am someone's doctor – yes. But I only see them professionally if they ask to see me. Otherwise ...' He shrugged his shoulders. ‘She did not ask to see me. That's that. I saw her sometimes at the surgery – at medical lectures and meetings. She did not consult me professionally.'

Joanna felt at a loss. ‘Was there anything wrong with her – heart?' she ventured.

Sammy Bose shrugged again. ‘How should I know?' he said. ‘As I've said. She didn't come to see me professionally. Look ...' He stared straight at Joanna. ‘Inspector?'

‘Yes?' Joanna said testily. It had been a long day and it was nowhere near over.

‘Inspector,' the doctor said. ‘Get the body to the mortuary. Then you'll have to get a decent pathologist to dig around.' He looked across the body at her. ‘You understand what I'm saying? I can't possibly issue a death certificate.'

‘Dr Levin?' she asked.

‘That's the one I was thinking of,' Sammy said, failing to notice her tentative tone, the faint flush. ‘Get Mat Levin to do the PM.' He grinned reassuringly at her. ‘He'll find something, I'm sure. Maybe drugs. I don't know. All I can tell you is this. She died here, without a struggle, on the bed, late last night.'

Joanna noticed Mike give a distinct smirk. ‘And you can't suggest a cause of death?'

Sammy Bose shook his head. ‘No,' he said. ‘She was a slightly plump, otherwise healthy woman who died. That's all.'

But that was not all. And now, she thought, Matthew was to be involved – again. She gave a deep sigh and suddenly she didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the thought that she would soon be seeing him again.

Sammy Bose cleared his throat. ‘If it's any help, Inspector,' he said, ‘I think she probably died of natural causes. In fact the only thing I'm unhappy about ...' he frowned, ‘is the obvious – it's the clothes. If it wasn't for those ... My God,' he said suddenly. ‘It's a nasty thought – perhaps masturbation ... I don't know. Maybe excitement brought on ... Maybe you're right. Maybe her heart or her brain – possibly a subarachnoid haemorrhage. Sometimes the first you know of a weakness can be when the blood vessel bursts.'

He glanced at the bottle of champagne. ‘And that doesn't help.'

‘Do you know her next of kin?'

He frowned. ‘No,' he said slowly. ‘I don't think I ever heard her mention family. I don't think there was one.'

Joanna turned to Mike. ‘We'd better get on with the PM before contacting the relatives.' Then, to Sammy Bose, ‘OK to remove the body?'

He nodded. ‘Fine. And you know what pathologists are like – the sooner the better. Fresh meat,' he said cheerfully.

‘Right,' she said briskly to Mike, ‘we can move the body but we'd better get the SOCOs over here. I want this place searched.'

For how long had the house been a prison? She put out her hand to touch the glass. Grey and cold, lifeless. An invisible barrier that held her inside these walls. She looked around the room, suddenly finding it unbearably large and open, and then back at the glass. The outside world seemed bright, a Disney view, intrusive. Angrily she pulled the curtains across with a snap. How dare it sit outside and stare in at her quiet privacy? She moved away from the window, backed towards the door and through into the hall. She liked it here, in her prison. It was cool and dull, and safe. The sun never came through. Some days she would sit at the foot of the stairs, clasping her knees with her hands. Then she would dream of Stevie. She smiled and hugged herself. ‘Stevie,' she whispered. ‘Stevie.' Suddenly she longed to touch all the familiar things, look out at the world through the bars of his cot, play with the soft, fluffy toys and hear the quiet tinkle of the musical box.

These were Pamella's anchors on normality ... chairs and tables, old pictures and books... soft toys.

Joanna was sitting in the car with Mike Korpanski. In one hand she held a notebook, in the other a sharpened pencil.

‘The place to start is the surgery,' she said. ‘We can move from there to next of kin ... friends ... Perhaps from there we can find out – ill health, suicide intent ...' She glanced at him.

‘Murder,' he mocked.

‘We can't rule it out,' she said. ‘And someone was with her last night.'

He shook his head. ‘We don't know that, ma'am.'

Joanna leaned forward and started the engine. ‘We don't know it,' she said, ‘but I certainly suspect it.'

The surgery was a modern, red brick, purpose-built building in the centre of town, with a raised roof which made it resemble a Chinese pagoda.

Joanna pulled into the car park, into a slot marked with a yellow sign. It read Nurse.

There were still a few patients sitting in the waiting room and as Joanna approached the hatch she was met by an anxious, questioning face. A tall redhead with pale freckles.

‘Yes?'

Joanna showed her card. ‘Detective Inspector Piercy,' she said. ‘I'm afraid I have some bad news.'

She was ushered through the door and the two women listened to her, watching with shocked eyes.

‘Dead?' one of them said incredulously, when she had finished. ‘Marilyn dead?'

The smaller receptionist with thick pebble-lensed glasses frowned. ‘How?' she asked.

Mike stepped forward. ‘We don't know,' he said, ‘yet. There'll have to be a post-mortem.'

The receptionist seemed to shrink. She sank down into a chair and passed a hand across her face, biting her lip hard and frowning.