Winding Up the Serpent

by Priscilla Masters

  Joanna listened. ‘Father?’ she ventured.

  ‘No, he died years ago.’ She looked at Joanna. ‘I never heard her talk about brothers and sisters either. In fact ... I don’t think she had any family. Otherwise she wouldn’t have got left all that money – would she?’

  And with that question the interview seemed at an end, except for the last important fact.

  ‘Which of you telephoned the police?’

  ‘I did.’ It was the redhead who spoke.

  ‘Why?’ It seemed an important point now. Why telephone the police when someone failed to turn up for work?

  ‘A telephone call came to the surgery ...’

  ‘She’d rung a few times,’ Maureen said helpfully, ‘asking for Sister Smith. Then she said there was something wrong with the dog.’

  ‘And who was it?’

  ‘We think it was the next door neighbour. She’s a bit strange,’ Sally said apologetically. ‘She’s been weird ever since her husband disappeared. Her and Marilyn have had words on a few occasions.’

  ‘What happened to her husband?’ Mike asked innocently.

  The two women looked at each other. ‘He just went,’

  Maureen said. ‘According to Marilyn, one day he simply wasn’t there.’

  ‘People don’t just disappear.’

  ‘He did,’ Maureen said stoutly. ‘I’m telling you. One day he was there. The next day he’d gone.’

  Joanna sighed. There was nothing here, she thought. No real clue to the nurse’s death.

  ‘Is it possible to speak to the doctor?’ she asked.

  Joanna instinctively liked Jonah Wilson. Fortyish with greying, untidy hair worn slightly long, touching the collar. A rough tweed jacket with sagging pockets leaking a stethoscope. His tie was not quite central and the end was frayed as were his shirt collar and both cuffs, and his trousers were baggy at the knees and lacked a crease. And as definitely as she knew she liked him she knew that Mike, standing stiffly at the door, did not.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Wilson,’ she said, sitting in the patient’s chair on the other side of the desk.

  He looked up and she caught an unexpected warmth in his smile.

  ‘I didn’t expect a woman when they said Detective Inspector.’ He took off his glasses and laid them on the desk. ‘I understand you have some questions to ask about Marilyn. Do you know how she died?’

  Joanna drew in a deep breath. ‘We’re treating her death as suspicious,’ she said, ‘but I can tell you there was no sign of violence. And there was no sign of a break-in.’

  The doctor smiled. ‘No burglar would be such a fool as to try and get to Marilyn past Ben,’ he said with a touch of humour. ‘Devoted to her, the dog was. Protected her as though he were a paid bodyguard.’

  Joanna nodded. ‘What was Marilyn like?’ she asked casually.

  ‘Quite a good nurse,’ he said. ‘Energetic.’

  ‘Honest?’

  He closed his eyes. ‘If I had thought she was not honest,’ he said wearily, ‘I would have given her the sack. She was a paid employee, Inspector. I can tell you about her professional competence. But I can’t tell you much else. Ask Maureen,’ he said, ‘or Sally. They’ll know more.’

  ‘Family?’ Mike ventured from the doorway.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ he said, then touched his mouth. ‘I seem to remember her having some time off. Mother’s funeral?’

  ‘When was this, sir?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ the doctor said. ‘Three ... four years ago.’

  ‘Could it have been five?’

  He smiled vaguely. ‘It could have been. I’m afraid I’m not very good with dates. Ask the receptionists,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘We have.’ Mike’s abruptness bordered on rudeness. The doctor seemed not to notice.

  Joanna smiled encouragingly. ‘Did you ever meet up outside work?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘My wife and I lead exceptionally quiet lives,’ he said quietly. ‘My wife ... She isn’t terribly well.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And where were you last night, Dr Wilson?’ Mike again, firing questions from the doorway.

  ‘I was on call.’

  ‘And were you called out ...?’ Mike drew out his notebook, ‘between eleven and twelve?’

  ‘I believe I was,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘I had to travel out across the moors. Onecote,’ he explained. ‘Case of suspected meningitis.’

  ‘And was it?’ It was Joanna who spoke this time.

  He smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘No,’ he said.

  She felt Mike looking at her and leaned forward. ‘What was she like?’ she asked again.

  A veil seemed to drop over the doctor’s face. ‘You’ve already asked me. Marilyn was good at her job,’ he said abruptly. ‘Kind ... compassionate.’

  Joanna’s mind was drawn back to the obscene figure on the bed. The two did not match up. She glanced at Mike.

  ‘She seemed to have a comfortable standard of living,’ she said, ‘for a nurse.’

  The doctor shifted uncomfortably. ‘I believe she owned a nice home,’ he said. ‘I was never inside it. I gave her a lift there once.’ He nodded. ‘It looked very pleasant.’

  Again Joanna met Mike’s sceptical glance. ‘How do you think she afforded it, Doctor?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ Doctor Wilson picked up his glasses, fiddled with them, slipped them on. His hands were shaking.

  ‘No idea?’ Mike’s tone was truculent.

  The doctor lost his composure. ‘I believe her mother died,’ he said irritably. ‘She inherited some money. Damn it ...’ He looked at both of them. ‘I don’t pry into my staffs financial affairs.’

  ‘How much did you pay her?’

  ‘Fifteen – sixteen thousand a year. I don’t know the exact figure.’

  ‘Who would?’

  ‘My accountant.’

  ‘Did she have an alternative source of income, Doctor?’

  ‘I really don’t know ...’ He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Did you fancy her?’

  Joanna gave Mike a warning glance.

  ‘No ... No ... Of course not.’ Jonah Wilson looked helplessly at Joanna. ‘She was my nurse. We had very little to do with each other ... We never saw each other out of work. We weren’t friends or anything. We were colleagues.’

  He was on the defensive. Joanna watched him carefully. There was distinct discomfort here. But it failed to hang together. She simply couldn’t connect the figure lying spreadeagled across the bed with this softly spoken intellectual. If they were not exactly chalk and cheese they represented at least the difference between a cheap, sensational paperback and an encyclopaedia. She watched the doctor and was puzzled.

  He seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s an awful shock. Yesterday she was here – working normally. I just can’t believe she’s dead. I’m sorry.’

  Joanna smiled. ‘That’s all right, Doctor,’ she said sweetly. ‘Sudden death isn’t pleasant, is it? But as soon as we have the results of the post-mortem we can probably drop the whole investigation.’

  ‘Investigation?’ He looked up.

  ‘It’s routine, Doctor,’ Joanna said smoothly. ‘I’m sure you understand – cases of sudden death.’

  ‘Well, what did she die of?’

  ‘We don’t know – yet.’ This time Mike’s voice sounded almost threatening.

  The doctor shot him a look. ‘I have patients to see,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else?’

  Joanna shook her head. ‘No.’ She stood up to leave, shook the doctor’s hand. ‘Thank you for your help, Dr Wilson.’

  He gave her a shy smile. ‘If it’s any help, Inspector,’ he said, ‘I don’t think she was the type to commit suicide and she was simply never ill.’ He hesitated. ‘But then it can be difficult to tell. As far as causes of death are concerned nature has a way of making the medical profession look foolish. De
ath doesn’t always leave its calling card the week before. I think you’ll find it was her heart.’ He paused. ‘Or a brain haemorrhage.’

  ‘I expect so,’ Joanna said soothingly.

  She was almost through the door when the doctor added, ‘Who will be performing the PM?’

  She stopped in her tracks. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Probably the pathologist.’

  Jonah Wilson nodded. ‘I expect it’ll be Mat Levin,’ he said.

  They let themselves out.

  Chapter 6

  The following morning found Paul Haddon happily tending the body of Harry Twemlow. There was plenty to do, cleaning and washing, some embalming. He carefully drew up a syringe of formalin and injected it. The funeral was set for Friday. He hummed as he worked. The relatives had expressed a wish to view the body – always a challenge to an undertaker. But he was equal to the task. Stage make-up, sparingly applied, the hair combed, the face shaved. Decent clothing.

  Then there was the inside of the coffin to be seen to. Silk, red or blue. Sometimes he chose. Sometimes the relatives expressed a preference. And plenty of flowers, soft organ music. He glanced around the chapel of rest. Lovely, he thought.

  The post-mortem was set for ten o’clock that morning. Joanna made her way to the Pathology Department of the local hospital and parked her car next to the maroon BMW.

  She sat for a moment, swamped by memories ... Matthew, grinning, jingling the keys. ‘Guess what I’ve just bought ...’ Pleased with his purchase, he had taken her out for a joy ride, accelerating noisily up the M6 – until a police car had flashed them across to the hard shoulder. She remembered DS Mike Korpanski’s shocked eyes as he recognized her ... By the fire in his stare she had known explanations would be futile. And every time she saw Mike Korpanski watching her she saw the same angry light.

  ‘Joanna! Joanna!’

  Startled, she roused herself. Matthew was rapping on the window, grinning. For a moment she stared, confused, memories mingling with the present, then she pressed the electric button and the glass slid down.

  ‘Jo,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here? Surely you haven’t come to see me?’

  He bent in at the car window, his hand resting on the roof as she studied him. He was completely unchanged, the old, familiar Matthew, honey-coloured hair, broad shoulders, green eyes, tanned face with his frank, open expression, ready grin trying to suppress the gladness he felt in seeing her. She studied him and noted that today he was dressed typically casually, open-necked shirt, loose cotton trousers.

  ‘I believe you have a PM booked for ten,’ she said.

  ‘The dead nurse?’ He looked surprised. ‘You’re involved in that?’

  ‘I’m heading the investigation,’ she said with a hint of self-consciousness. ‘Besides ...’ She smiled at him. ‘I wanted to make sure you were doing your job properly.’

  He touched her shoulder briefly. ‘Jo,’ he said warmly, ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again. I’ve missed you.’

  He opened the door and she stepped out. She was as tall as he was, and came level with his eyes. He stared at her, then smiled.

  ‘It’s no use you teasing me,’ he said softly. ‘I know darn well you’re already feeling queasy at the thought of the craniotomy. Mind you, Jo,’ his hand brushed her cheek and for a short moment her frown line was ironed out, ‘you look bloody marvellous.’

  She stood very still, tempted to snatch his hand back, hold it longer, harder against her cheek. ‘So do you, Mat.’ For a moment they stared at one another, oblivious to all around them, their only emotion joy in each other’s company.

  It was Joanna who moved first. With a quick movement she turned, bent down and locked her car. Then together they walked through the swinging doors into the hospital and turned down the long corridor towards the Pathology Department.

  ‘Inspector Piercy,’ he mused. ‘So you got your promotion – at last. I read it in the paper,’ he added. ‘I’m proud of you, Jo.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Yes, I got the promotion.’ She couldn’t resist adding, ‘Life has to hold some compensations.’

  He ignored the dig and disappeared into a cubicle to change. ‘You deserved it after nobbling the Whalleys. Blood and thunder,’ he said from behind the curtain. ‘Leek’s getting positively law-abiding.’

  ‘Not too much,’ she said, smiling. ‘I don’t want to be seconded to Manchester because there isn’t enough work. I like it here. I’ve grown used to it.’

  ‘Me too,’ he agreed, emerging in theatre greens and white wellies. ‘But perhaps we’d better reserve judgement on the quality of local law and order until after we’ve tackled this little problem.’

  ‘This little problem’ was wheeled in on a refrigerated trolley, smothered in a white sheet. Matthew lifted it. He stared at the black lace underwear, whaleboned figure, suspenders and the long stockings ending in cover girl high-heeled shoes. His eyes moved the whole length of the ladder. ‘God,’ he said, then glanced at Joanna. ‘What a get-up.’

  His eyes met hers and she couldn’t resist a comment. ‘Like a bloody fancy dress, isn’t it?’

  Matthew gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Just right for a mistress,’ she said sourly.

  ‘Joanna ...’ he pleaded but she met his gaze unflinchingly.

  ‘I’ve got the plastic bags,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll have to cut the clothing off. We’ll want it for forensics.’

  Without another word he inspected the clothes, meticulously noting stains and tearing, and carefully cut them off and dropped them into the bags. Helped by the mortuary assistant he then measured the body, nape to feet, head circumference, dictating all the details into the small, pocket dictaphone.

  Next he made a close inspection of the skin for contusions, tearings, took swabs of orifices, and inspected under fingernails for bloody pieces of tissue, or clothing from an attacker.

  He turned the body over and spoke into his recording machine: ‘Body unmarked – no sign of attack.’ He glanced at her. ‘Doesn’t look like an assault,’ he said. ‘What were your thoughts, Jo?’

  ‘I’m puzzled,’ she said frankly. ‘But I did wonder ... drugs, poison? Perhaps ... suicide? There were no signs of a break-in and the dog inside the house would have killed anyone who tried to get to her.’

  She looked back at Matthew. ‘She must have died of something, Mat.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what pathology we can unearth.’

  Now it was time for methodical work, deft hands sawing through the skull, search the brain – cross-sections in flesh and blood. Sternal split, the ribs pulled back to reveal heart, lungs ... weighing each organ.

  It was more than an hour later that he stood up.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ he said incredulously. ‘I can’t find a cause of death.’ His face was troubled and set, and he stared abstractedly past her as though battling with a mental puzzle.

  ‘Matthew,’ she said gently, ‘you’re not making any sense. She must have died of something.’

  ‘Viscera to Birmingham,’ he said. ‘They’ll have to be analysed. It might be poison.’ He looked dubiously at her. ‘It could be – it’s just that I don’t think so. There’s nearly always some sign – scent or discoloration, foam around the mouth, sometimes blisters if a corrosive substance was ingested. There’s nothing. Not a clue.’

  ‘But surely you would have picked up poison in the stomach?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Personally, I’d have plumped for natural causes. Ten pounds I’d have bet on a subarachnoid haemorrhage, some congenital weakness in the circle of Willis. But it wasn’t there.’

  She looked hard at him, chewed on her lip. ‘I might have gone along with natural causes,’ she said, ‘if it hadn’t been for the clothes ... You saw them. She was togged up like a tart. It was all brand new. We found the price labels in the wastepaper basket. And then there was the room.’ She frowned. ‘
Matthew – you didn’t see it. Champagne, silk roses, pink lampshades. It was cheap, contrived – seductive – like a brothel.’

  She found the words difficult to say to him of all people, recalling scenes she had set, rooms tidied, props placed for lovemaking – bottles of champagne in coolers, flowers, scented sheets.

  Matthew met her eyes and she knew he was thinking identical thoughts. Mercifully he said nothing.

  ‘Come on, Matthew,’ she said softly. ‘Women don’t spend more than a hundred pounds on boned basques and négligés for nothing.’

  He scratched his head in a confused gesture. ‘Well, I don’t think I’ve missed anything.’

  ‘Intercourse?’ she asked firmly.

  ‘Again – I don’t think so.’ He paused. ‘I can’t see any semen or tearing and oedema – bruising. Of course I can’t be one hundred per cent positive until the swabs come back.’ He crossed the room, dictating into his tape recorder as he walked.

  The police photographs were pinned up on an X-ray light and they looked at them ... Marilyn, legs splayed, crude black underwear, make-up grotesque and bright ...

  ‘It isn’t fitting together,’ he said. ‘It’s like muddled pieces of two separate jigsaw puzzles ... different shapes ... different pictures. No sense,’ he said flatly. ‘No sense at all.

  ‘And there’s something else I want to show you,’ he said, returning to the post-mortem table. ‘She was a very expensive corpse.’

  Joanna almost giggled. ‘That has to be the first time I’ve ever heard a corpse described as expensive.’ She bit her lip. ‘Unless you count the cost of funerals. How can a corpse be expensive, Matthew?’ she said. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This,’ he said. ‘Look.’ He held back the ears, lifted the breasts, the chin, pointed out marks on the thighs – thin lines, paler than the surrounding skin, an asymmetrical lumpiness on the legs.

  Joanna looked at him, puzzled. ‘What are they?’

  ‘This woman,’ he said, ‘spent a bloody fortune trying to look beautiful.’

  ‘What?’ She still didn’t understand.

  ‘Scars, Jo. They’re Harley Street scars.’ His enthusiasm for the job spilt into his voice. He loved finding clues. He was an expert in his field, a lover of puzzles.