Winding Up the Serpent (8 page)

‘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.'

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.

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?'

He flushed.

‘Without any man even in the background?'

His face and neck turned a deeper red. ‘At one time,' he muttered, ‘I would have said only you.'

She hardened her jaw. ‘Well, that just proves a point,' she said sharply. ‘Practically every woman has someone. And some women manage to keep them hidden from public sight.'

‘You think a married man, then, ma'am?'

‘Possibly,' she said coolly. ‘And this woman,' she jabbed her finger on the bureau, ‘if she did have a man – and circumstances suggest she did – she managed to conceal it rather well, don't you think? The grandfather clock, this bureau, two expensive antiques. Perhaps they were presents from a lover?'

For answer Mike gave a loud and sceptical snort.

The bureau had been forced open by the SOCOs. As everywhere else in the house, the contents of the desk were tidy and organized.

‘Know anything about antiques values, Mike?'

‘No,' he held up a bundle of receipts, ‘but these might answer some of your questions.' He couldn't resist smirking. ‘And in answer to your question, ma'am, there wasn't a boyfriend. She bought them.'

Joanna glanced through them. ‘One thousand three hundred pounds – for a clock? Is this how much they cost?' She stared at the sergeant. ‘Mike,' she said, ‘where did all the money come from?'

He shook his head.

‘And this – three thousand for this tiny bureau?' She gave a sudden smile. ‘Have nurses had such wonderful pay rises?'

Mike gave a short laugh. ‘My wife's a nurse,' he said grumpily. ‘I can tell you how much she earns and it wouldn't buy the contents of the garage.'

Joanna held up another of the receipts. ‘They're all from the same place. Do we know this shop?'

Mike scowled. ‘Do I know it?' he said furiously. ‘We never could get anything on clever little Mr Grenville Machin and we've been watching him for three or four years. He's as crooked as a nine pence piece. He's become a millionaire in a blink of an eye, lives in a bloody mansion. He's known by all the police in this area. God only knows what rackets he's into – drugs, organized crime – almost certainly acts as a fence. We even managed to get him on an attempted murder charge, but...' He walked across to the window and stared out. ‘He got off,' he said. ‘People like him always do. They can afford the best lawyers. He got a QC from Manchester who got him off scot free – for a fee. We ended up looking bloody silly in court.'

Joanna watched him curiously and wondered why Mike was so bitter about the case. What was the degree of his involvement?

‘Tell me,' she said.

Mike turned and looked at her bitterly. ‘Another time, Inspector,' he said, ‘but I can tell you that man made a damned monkey out of me and for that I'll never forgive him. And within the law I can tell you something else. For all your clever ways, Inspector Miss Madam Piercy, you'll never pin anything on Grenville Machin. He's too clever even for you, even for this super-race of females. Men like that' – he spat the words out – ‘the law can't touch them. And that's the dog-end of this job. The law can't or won't touch them. It's even worse than working under women, madam.'

Joanna stared at the furious policeman, more hurt than she would have thought possible. She stood for a moment, then shrugged. She turned her attention away from him and picked up a sheaf of letters, glancing at the signature on the one on top ... ‘Love, Mum'. She glanced at the date. ‘Didn't someone say Marilyn's mother was dead?' she asked.