‘I think I’d rather go on my own. I don’t want to antagonize him and I think you’re probably a bit of a red rag to that particular bull, Mike.’
‘You spoil all the fun,’ he grumbled.
‘I know ... I know. Look – why don’t you go and see the vet again? Ask him whether he thinks Ben might have allowed anyone into the house.’
Mike gave a grin. ‘You want me to ask about phantom dogs while I’m there?’
She laughed. ‘Why not?’
The antique shop was huge – a massive warehouse converted into a showroom of antiques all shapes and sizes. Joanna walked in and was met by a tiny, strikingly pretty blonde behind the counter. She wore a skintight, black Lycra miniskirt with high-heeled silver boots and a scarlet silk shirt which showed small, pointed breasts. She raised thick, black false eyelashes at Joanna. ‘Can I help you?’
Joanna showed her her ID card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Piercy,’ she said. ‘I’m investigating the death of Marilyn Smith.’ She looked at the blonde, who had shrewd, business eyes in spite of the bimbo costume. ‘Did you know her?’
The girl bit her lip. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said slowly.
Joanna drew out the photograph she had of the dead nurse. ‘Have a look at this ...’
‘Patty,’ the girl supplied. ‘Patty Brownlow.’ She stared at the picture then raised the heavy lashes. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, then scrutinized Joanna’s face. ‘What did you say your name was?’
Joanna gave it again and the blonde disappeared to find Grenville Machin, leaving Joanna with the vague feeling she might meet Patty Brownlow again.
He was nothing like she had expected. No hint of the thug millionaire. He was short – a few inches shorter than she – slim, almost weedy, with a heavy Italianate moustache, bristly like a lavatory brush. He held out his hand and gave her a charming, suave smile, displaying white, wolfish teeth.
‘What can I do for you, Detective Inspector? A woman ...’ He leered ‘... and so far in her chosen profession.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘No stopping you now, is there?’
And all the time she was wondering, is this man a clever murderer? Joanna felt a deep revulsion for him with his easy confidence. Dislike doesn’t necessarily make a man a criminal, but she knew this one was, one way or another ... Drugs ... Stolen goods ... Fraud... Attempted murder? Murder?
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m investigating the sudden death of Marilyn Smith.’ She used the word ‘sudden’ purposely, hoping to rattle him. It failed. He merely looked puzzled.
Who?’ he asked.
‘Sister Marilyn Smith,’ Joanna said clearly. ‘She worked at the Health Centre. She was found dead on Tuesday, at home. I believe you were a close friend of hers.’
Grenville Machin looked completely comfortable. ‘Then you’ve been misinformed,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid, Inspector, that someone has been telling you little porkies.’
‘Porkies?’
‘Pork pies,’ he said. ‘Lies.’
Round one to him, she thought.
‘But you did know her?’
He sauntered to the window, doodled in the dust on the windowpane, then turned so his face was in deep shadow, features in darkness. ‘No better than I know a few hundred of my other regular customers,’ he said. ‘I sold her some nice pieces of furniture over the years. I even delivered them to her house.’ He smiled carelessly. ‘I do that for most of my private customers. Of course – trade ...’ He shrugged his shoulders and bared his teeth again, stroking his moustache lovingly. ‘When probate has been settled I’d be quite happy to buy most of them back. They were honest pieces,’ he said, his black eyes flashing with a rude challenge.
Now Joanna knew why Mike had such a strong abhorrence for the man. He was an utter rat. As a woman she felt her skin prickle in reaction to him; any red-blooded man would long to punch him.
‘We need to examine the circumstances surrounding her death,’ she said sharply, ‘before we sell off her household goods.’
The antique dealer grinned. ‘No harm in trying,’ he said. ‘It’ll have to go somewhere and I’m offering.’
‘I suggest you were close friends.’ She kept her eyes trained on his face, which was screwed up against the light, trying to draw what she could from his dark features.
But Grenville Machin laughed at her. ‘Close friends!’ he exploded. ‘Do you mean what I think you mean?
‘God,’ he said, ‘you’ve seen her. She was no oil painting. Now Patty there...’ He jerked his head towards the blonde, just visible through the open door. ‘That’s what I call pretty – worth a grunt or two.’ His face challenged her and she felt a sudden, hot anger.
‘I’ve seen Marilyn Smith dead,’ she said. ‘No one is pretty dead.’ But she knew it had the ring of truth. The blonde and Marilyn Smith were women out of two quite different moulds. Try as hard as she might, she knew Grenville had not been the man Marilyn Smith had bought black lace for. But there had been no actual love-making. What if it had all been in Marilyn’s mind? What if Grenville Machin had led her on, pretended he found her attractive? What if he had decided on a way to deal with the blackmailer?
But she knew what rankled. This man was trying to make her look a fool and was succeeding in nettling her. The connection between the dead woman and this buyer and seller of fine antiques was tenuous. Possibly they hardly knew each other. More make believe?
But ... ‘How did she pay for her pieces?’ she asked.
Grenville Machin looked momentarily discomfited. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said irritably. ‘It was a couple of years ago.’ He leered and his confidence seeped back. ‘I sell a load of stuff through this place,’ he said. ‘I can’t be expected to remember how everybody pays for them.’
‘But you keep books,’ Joanna insisted.
‘I have to,’ he said. ‘Inland Revenue.’
‘I’d be grateful, Mr Machin,’ she said calmly, ‘if you’d hunt out the receipts of the antiques you sold to Marilyn Smith. We know about the clock and the bureau.’ She smiled smoothly. ‘Was there anything else?’
He was rattled. He reddened and promised to have the books ready for inspection by the following day. Joanna stood up to leave but underneath her confident manner she was depressed. She felt disheartened and tired and sickened by Machin.
‘I’ve read about you,’ he needled. ‘Got a bee in your bonnet about murder. I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that maybe she died in her sleep. You coppers,’ he said, ‘see murderers hiding round every tree, behind every door. We’re all crooks to you, ain’t we?’
She tightened her lips and he grinned even more broadly. ‘Keep your hair on,’ he said. ‘Pretty woman like you. You should be married – at home with a couple of kids, not pitting your wits against the criminal world.’
‘Mr Machin,’ she said sharply, ‘you sound just like my mother.’ She put her tongue in her cheek. ‘Would you mind if I had a quick look round? I believe you export Doulton figures to the United States.’ She looked hard at him. ‘We have a lot of thefts in the Potteries of Doulton figures. I don’t suppose there’s any connection.’
He looked wary. ‘Got a warrant?’
‘No,’ she said smoothly, ‘but I have a penchant for antiques. I just might want to buy some.’
The antique dealer looked furious and she knew she had emerged the victor of this minor skirmish.
‘Don’t go through any of the doors marked private,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve got closed-circuit television.’
She tutted. ‘The things we have to do these days to deal with the criminal fraternity.’
After about an hour she had seen enough. He saw her to the door.
‘Call again,’ he said.
‘Unfortunately I’m not terribly fond of cheap Far Eastern imports,’ she said. ‘But I do like antiques.’ She glanced around. ‘I don’t seem to have spotted many.’
He scowled. ‘They aren’t so easy to get hold of these days,’ he muttered and s
he stared at him.
‘But you let Marilyn Smith have some.’
He kicked the step. ‘She paid me a good price.’
‘Prove it,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I believe you. By the way, Mr Machin ...’ she added, ‘fond of dogs, are you?’
He stared at her. ‘Now what are you on about?’
‘Just asking,’ Joanna said coolly.
He frowned. ‘One thing I’ve learned in my dealings with your lot,’ he said. ‘You never “just ask” anything.’
‘Exactly.’
On the way back to the station she decided it was time to call again at the doctor’s surgery and was met this time by an empty waiting room and the red-haired receptionist about to pull the shutter down. She didn’t look in the least bit pleased to see Joanna. ‘He’s just finished,’ she said. ‘He’s had a long day. I hope you haven’t got a lot of questions.’
‘Just one or two.’
The receptionist spoke on the telephone then turned back to her. ‘He’ll be with you in a moment.’
Joanna picked up a magazine and leafed through it, feeling the familiar nervous prickling associated with the smell of disinfectant and methylated spirits. It had been a long time since she had sat, nervously waiting, in a doctor’s surgery, for the results of a test, worry gnawing away her stomach. She needn’t have worried – it had been negative and that had been the last time she had visited her own doctor. ‘Worry,’ the doctor had said, ‘can cause the same symptom.’ She had not known whether to laugh or cry and in the end she had got drunk – alone. That had been two years ago.
‘Damn this whole bloody case,’ she muttered. Why didn’t crime ever take her to a glamorous hotel for some show-biz, film-star luxury? Instead she was here, staring at walls that warned of HIV and advised her to check her tetanus status, reading two-year-old magazines.
She looked up and saw the doctor. He didn’t look pleased to see her either and he gave her a quick, embarrassed glance. She joined him in the reception area just as he was shutting the door of the safe.
‘Prescription pads,’ he explained, ‘plus some of the more sensitive sets of notes.’
She wondered whose were the ‘sensitive’ notes.
Jonah would be cross. She had opened the garage and found a large screwdriver with a yellow plastic handle. Then she had climbed the stairs, hearing Stevie’s naughty giggling getting louder with each step She had pushed the screwdriver hard in and the door had splintered and cracked. Then she was afraid – afraid to go in and afraid of what she might find. So she sat on the top step, holding the screwdriver tightly in her fist.
‘Stevie ...’ she whispered, ‘... Stevie.’
He turned to Joanna and gave her a tired smile. With a shock she realized he looked ten years older. Was it the death of his nurse? The extra work? The strain? She hardly thought so. It was something else.
‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’
‘I wanted to go over Marilyn’s last day here,’ she said. ‘Was she excited about something that day, happy, pleased – different in any way?’
The doctor thought, blinked and frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘She seemed the same as ever.’
Joanna turned to Sally. ‘Did you notice anything on that particular day? Did anything unusual happen? A telephone call? A letter?’
The receptionist looked away. ‘Not really,’ she said, busying herself filing notes.
The doctor looked at her. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What’s turned up?’
But Joanna found herself reluctant to discuss the case with either of them. There was something conspiratorial – guilty even – between the pair. She looked from one to the other.
‘Nothing. I wanted really to tell you we still haven’t found the cause of death. It’s possible we might drop the case.’ Did she imagine that look of relief, or was she seeing spectres where there were none?
‘Of course,’ she added, ‘we might find something out from the forensic lab in Birmingham.’
It was not her imagination. The wary look was back again.
The doctor looked strained. ‘She has to have died from natural causes,’ he said. ‘Why involve the Birmingham lab?’
‘We requested some of the internal organs be sent there for analysis,’ she said formally, and wondered why he looked so upset. The next minute she felt sorry for him. He looked pale and so tired – ready to drop – and he had known the dead woman for a number of years; they had been colleagues – and once friends.
‘Did any of you ever see Marilyn swallow any capsules?’ she asked, ‘red and yellow ones. Did she ever mention any medication she was prescribed?’
‘I should ask Dr Bose,’ he said.
‘We have.’ Joanna paused. ‘He wasn’t prescribing her anything. Tell me, Doctor, did Marilyn have access to drugs here in the surgery?’
‘Of course.’ He sounded impatient. ‘Inspector, she was my nurse. She had access to absolutely anything she wanted.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I had to trust her.’ He frowned. ‘Red and yellow capsules sound like an antibiotic,’ he said. ‘Hold on. I’ll look it up.’
A minute or so later, he said, ‘There’s a penicillin preparation in a red and yellow capsule.’
‘Was she taking penicillin?’ Joanna asked innocently.
Doctor and receptionist shook their heads. ‘Not that we know of. I never saw her take pills.’
Joanna stood up to leave. ‘We’ll keep you informed.’ She hesitated. ‘Dr Wilson, would you mind if I spoke to your wife?’
He wheeled round. ‘What on earth has all this business got to do with Pam? I told you. My wife isn’t well. She’s a vulnerable woman. News like this will upset her.’
‘You mean she doesn’t know about Marilyn’s death?’ said Joanna in disbelief. ‘You haven’t told her?’
Jonah Wilson shook his head. ‘Why should she know?’ he asked. ‘It doesn’t affect her.’
She was taken aback by his manner and by the receptionist’s vigorous nodding. They were protecting Pamella Wilson as though she were a child. Why shield her from the news? Would it upset her so very much?
‘But they were friends,’ she said. ‘Good friends. Best friends.’
The doctor looked at her curiously, and said quickly, ‘She can’t help you. They trained together in the same hospital. They were friends then but since Pamella and I were married ...’
‘But they were still friends after you were married.’ She paused. ‘Do you mean it was after your wife’s illness?’
The doctor nodded. ‘She knows nothing. I promise you, Inspector.’ He was pleading. ‘My wife is a sick woman – very sick. I don’t want her upset.’
‘Dr Wilson,’ Joanna said gently. ‘I don’t want your wife upset either. But I must speak to her. I honestly believe she might be able to help.’
‘The damned tart...’ Jonah Wilson finally lost his self- control. ‘Pamella ...’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘She doesn’t know a thing about it.’
‘About what?’
‘About anything.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I must insist. I only need to confirm the times you were out on Monday night and ask her a few questions about Marilyn.’
‘She hadn’t even seen her for years.’
‘They might have talked on the phone.’
‘Pamella would have told me,’ he said. ‘She hides nothing from me.’
‘I’ll deal with her sensitively,’ Joanna said, but the doctor gave a dry laugh.
‘Sensitively,’ he echoed. ‘The police?’
Joanna swallowed her pride and her anger. It was a large mouthful ...
Jonah suddenly met her eyes. ‘It was years ago that she knew Marilyn. They hadn’t seen each other for a long time. She won’t miss Marilyn, you know. If you need to know about my night visits you can ask the receptionists here.’ He was panicking. ‘All night visits are filled in on the notes – times as well.’
‘Just a minute,’
she said. ‘Do you mean you come here, pick up the notes and then visit the patient?’
He shook his head. ‘We fill in the night visit pad then stick it in the notes.’
Joanna nodded. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Tunes as well?’
‘We have to,’ he said reluctantly. ‘It makes a difference how much we’re paid – night visit rate.’
She fixed her gaze on the doctor. ‘You should have told me your wife and Marilyn were friends,’ she said.
‘I wanted to keep her out of it.’
‘But it was through your wife that Marilyn came to work here.’
He nodded. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘If you must see Pam I’d rather it was when I’m with her.’
‘When?’
He picked up his coat. ‘I’m on my way home,’ he said diffidently. ‘Does now suit?’
The house was the first surprise, a modest 1930s semi with a tiny garden and peeling paintwork. Pamella Wilson was the second.
Even as Jonah turned his key in the door he called out to her to warn her he was not alone. ‘I’m home, darling, and somebody’s with me. Don’t be alarmed ... Pam, it’s a policewoman ... Don’t worry ...’
Mrs Wilson emerged from behind the living room door, peeping round like a shy child, small and thin with huge dark eyes and a screwed-up face, as though she was about to ask a question. She looked vulnerable, frightened. She was so pathetic a figure, Joanna felt nothing but pity.
Pamella Wilson held out a large yellow screwdriver. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Jonah. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He took the screwdriver from her very gently. ‘Oh, Pam,’ he said. ‘Don’t go in there any more.’
Two large tears rolled down her face. ‘I just wanted to see him, Jonah,’ she said. ‘I thought he would be there.’
He turned helplessly to Joanna. ‘Let me talk to her alone for five minutes,’ he said. ‘Let me tell her about Marilyn in my own way, please – explain ...’
Joanna was moved. It was almost as though his wife was a patient and he was telling her she had a few months left to live. She waited in the hall. The heavy-booted approach would never work here. Here was a woman who would crumble faced with interrogation. But she had also been the only woman Joanna had met who had even claimed to be a friend of the dead nurse.
Winding Up the Serpent Page 13
