The Shape of Snakes

by Minette Walters

  I touched a hand to his shoulder by way of apology because it was cruel to associate him with his family's hate when he'd stated so often in his e-mails to Luke that he didn't approve of white people living in South Africa. "But my argument isn't with the Slaters," I told Drury, "it's with you." I stirred the torn photographs with the point of my finger. "Because when I accused you and your colleagues of the same thing, it frightened you so badly that you manipulated every piece of evidence to support the theory that Annie had died in an accident. And I'd like to know why you did that."

  Did I imagine the flicker of fear in his cold, reptilian eyes or was it real? "We didn't have to manipulate anything," he said sharply. "We accepted the inquest verdict ... accidental death after stumbling under a truck some fifteen to thirty minutes before you found her."

  "But you didn't know what the verdict was going to be when you began the investigation into Annie's death."

  "So?"

  "So you can't claim it as justification for your refusal to make proper inquiries. The only evidence you put forward was a description of Annie's house after she was dead, but it didn't stop you weighing in with a conclusion that she was a chronic drunk, an abuser of animals and a mental incompetent who neglected herself. I even remember your words. You said that in view of 'Mad Annie's' numerous problems your only surprise was that she'd lived as long as she had."

  "Which was a view endorsed by everyone except you."

  "Her doctor didn't endorse it."

  He looked beyond me toward the door. "Your husband did," he murmured. "He and Mr. Williams described Annie as paralytic outside your house when they came home an hour and a half before you did. They also implied it wasn't unusual."

  I followed his gaze to where Sam was hovering uncertainly in the doorway. We'd tarried too long, I thought. In the end everyone's patience ran out, even the guilty's. "They were lying," I said flatly.

  "So you kept saying in '78."

  "It's the truth."

  "Why would they want to? If anyone was going to back you it ought to have been the man you married."

  Once upon a time that had been my view, too, but only because I'd believed that truth was simple. "He was trying to protect his friend," I said carefully. "The two people I saw under the street lamp that night were Jock Williams and Sharon Percy. I suppose Jock was afraid I'd seen him ... and didn't want his wife finding out he'd been with a prostitute. So he and Sam concocted their story about going back to our house for a beer."

  Drury glanced toward the door again, but Sam had disappeared. "Why didn't you tell me this twenty years ago?"

  "I did. I gave you Jock's name as the man I thought I saw."

  "But that's the point," he said sarcastically. "You only thought you saw him ... and you didn't say he was with Sharon Percy."

  "At the time I didn't know who she was."

  He gave a dismissive shake of his head. "Sharon had an alibi and Mr. Williams was ruled out when your husband vouched for him."

  "But you never even questioned him," I said, "just accepted Sam's word against mine. But why? Wasn't a woman's word as good as a man's?"

  He leaned his hands on the counter and shoved his face close to mine. "You were 'round the bend, Mrs. Ranelagh. Nothing you said was believable. Everyone agreed with that ... even your husband and mother. And they should know because they had to live with you."

  If I'd had a gun at that moment, I'd have killed him. Bang! Straight between the eyes. How dare he quote my family at me when he had been the cause of their distrust? But hatred is a futile emotion which damages the hater more than the hated. Yes, he'd have been dead ... but so would I ... to everything that mattered to me. Perhaps my expression said more than I realized because he straightened abruptly.

  "Sam and Jock invented their story to conform with what you told Jock's wife the next morning," I said evenly. "You told Libby Williams, and anyone else who was interested, that Annie had been seen staggering about the road an hour before she died, you also mentioned the outside time she could have stumbled in front of the lorry. All Sam and Jock did was recycle that information to give you what you wanted�a stupid, drunk nigger lurching around from 7:45�and the fact that none of it was true didn't bother you one little bit."

  "Why would your husband and Mr. Williams do that?"

  I shrugged. "It was easier for everyone if she died in an accident. For !he police, too. It meant no one had to address the issue of racism."

  He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed in what looked like genuine perplexity. "When did your husband tell you this?"

  "Six months after we left England."

  It was in the wake of the Hong Kong policeman debacle. Sam had drowned himself in whisky while stomping about the room, lecturing me on my behavior. Most of it�the issue of how my "madness" was affecting his career and social life�washed over me. Some of it did not, particularly when he started to feel sorry for himself at three o'clock in the morning. He was missing England ... and it was my fault. What the hell had induced me to go spouting off to the police about murder...? He could hardly switch horses midstream ... not when poor old Jock was caught between a rock and a hard place. Half the bloody road had seen the stupid woman roaring around like a bear with a sore head. All he did was agree with them ...

  I fancied I could hear Drury's brain whirring.

  "You told me your husband was lying as soon as I read his statement to you. How could you know that if he didn't admit it until six months later?"

  "There were no beer cans in the rubbish bin," I said.

  Danny took a swig of Radley's draught lager and eyed Sam suspiciously across the table as he wiped the froth from his lips. "How come you didn't recognize Mr. Drury when your missus brought you here the other day?" he demanded. "I haven't seen him in years but he hasn't changed that much."

  Sam went on the defensive immediately. "I only met him a couple of times. As far as I remember, I was more interested in what he was saying than what he looked like."

  "Sam's not very good with faces," I offered by way of mitigation.

  Danny ignored me. "How about when you made your statement? He must have interviewed you first. Didn't you look at him then?"

  "It wasn't Drury who took it. It was a constable. And, no, I was never interviewed ... just asked to write out where I was and what I was doing." He raised his eyes briefly to mine. "The statement ended my involvement. I wasn't even required to appear at the inquest."

  Danny was unimpressed. "Yeah, but you don't walk away when your family's in trouble," he said. "You should have insisted on being there whenever your missus was questioned. Christ! I wouldn't let my lady go through Drury's wringer on her own."

  Sam cupped his own glass in his hands but made no move to drink from it. "You're describing a different scenario. My wife wasn't facing charges, she was the one who was asking for charges to be brought."

  "I don't blame her. That poor black lady looks as though she had the shit beaten out of her. It doesn't make any difference anyway. Your wife is family. You should have been there for her. That's the way it works."

  Sam buried his face in his hands, and I had to harden my heart to his pain because there was no avoiding the issue that my husband was part of the problem ... not part of the solution...

  "It wasn't that simple," he muttered wretchedly.

  "Sure it was," said Danny scathingly. "Trust me. I know this stuff backward. Families pull together ... rats jump ship."

  Letter from Danny's mother, Maureen Slater, dated 1999

  32 Graham Road

  Richmond

  2 August

  Dear Mrs. Ranelagh,

  The reason I'm agreeing to see you is because Danny likes you and you did a kind thing for Alan all those years ago when you caught him thieving off of you. He's a fine man now�married with kiddies�and I think you'll be glad you gave him a second chance. Also I appreciated you visiting me in hospital that time. I know I told you I'd fallen down the stairs, but I t
hink you guessed it was Derek who gave me the injuries.

  You say a lot's changed since 1978 and that's true. There's hardly anybody left who remembers Annie. I still don't think she was murdered, but like you say there's probably no harm talking about it now. Derek walked out on me twenty years ago and I haven't seen him since.

  Around midday next Monday will be fine.

  Yours,

  Maureen Slater

  Letter to Sergeant James Drury�dated 1999

  LEAVENHAM FARM, LEAVENHAM, NR DORCHESTER, DORSET DT2 XXY

  Thursday, August 5, 1999

  Dear Mr. Drury,

  Following our conversation yesterday, I enclose a copy of a letter I received in 1985 from a colleague of Dr. Benjamin Hanley. the pathologist who performed the postmortem on Ann Butts. In view of your confidence in Dr. Hanley's findings, you may find it interesting reading. The colleague's name was Dr. Anthony Deverill and he worked with Benjamin Hanley from 1979 until Hanley's compulsory retirement on medical grounds in 1982.

  Yours sincerely,

  M. Ranelagh

  PS: Following the investigations referred to in (3) of Anthony Deverill's letter, both cases (believed at the time to be murders) were referred back to the Court of Appeal and the convictions against two innocent men were overturned. The evidence provided by Dr. Hanley was deemed "unsafe" and the deaths of the alleged "victims" were subsequently ruled to have occurred from "natural causes."

  PPS: I have several sets of the postmortem photographs.

  DR. ANTHONY DEVERILL, MRCPATH, 25

  AVENUE ROAD, CHISWICK, LONDON W4

  Mrs. M. Ranelagh

  P.O. Box 103

  Langley

  Sydney

  Australia

  February 6, 1985

  Dear Mrs. Ranelagh,

  Thank you for your letter of January 10, together with the enclosed postmortem photographs of Miss Ann Butts and the written report from Professor James Webber. As you so rightly say, I have met Professor Webber on several occasions and have a high regard for his judgment. Indeed, after studying the photographs myself, I have no reason to disagree with his detailed assessment that Miss Butts received the injuries to her face and arm some hours before her death.

  Your specific request was for information on my predecessor Dr. Benjamin Hanley, who conducted the postmortem in November '78. You say that both you and your father made unsuccessful attempts to contact him over the years, and that the only response either of you had was when his secretary admitted to your father over the telephone in 1982 that the file relating to Miss Butts's postmortem was "missing." Unfortunately, a search of the archive files appears to confirm this last statement, as the only evidence that Dr. Hanley conducted a postmortem on Miss Butts is an entry beside his name on the work schedule for 15.11.78�"10:30 a.m. Butts. RTA. Report requested by PS Drury, Richmond."

  You may be interested to learn that Miss Butts's file is not the only one we have been unable to locate. Of the 103 entries against Dr. Hanley's name on the '78, '79 and '81 rosters, nine are currently "missing." Re your specific inquiries:

  1. As you already know, Dr. Hanley was compulsorily retired on medical grounds in 1982 and died of liver failure eighteen months later. However, the compulsory element to his retirement related to a deterioration in his work and performance over a twelve-month period and not to a diagnosed medical condition since he refused to consult a doctor. This is not unusual among pathologists who deal with death every day and can forecast their own prognoses. In simple terms. Dr. Hanley was a chronic alcoholic who be came increasingly incapable of doing the job assigned to him. The "medical" tag was attached to the retirement order to allow him to keep his pension, but the cirrhosis that killed him was not discovered until shortly before his death when he was admitted to hospital. These facts are a matter of public record, and I betray no confidences by passing them on to you.

  2. I worked alongside Dr. Hanley for two and half years�from September '79, to March '82, when he retired�and I am sorry to say that I had serious reservations about his competence from the beginning. It is, of course, impossible for me to comment on a postmortem that a) took place before I joined the team and b) has no supporting documentation on file; however, it is my considered opinion that Dr. Hanley's alcoholism would certainly have affected his judgment in November '78.

  3. I have no precise knowledge of Dr. Hanley's relationship with PS Drury of Richmond Police, nor can I validate your contention that: "Dr. Hanley may have taken direction from PS Drury and produced a report that suited Richmond Police." However, I expressed concern on several occasions that Dr. Hanley was compromising the independence of his department by writing postmortem reports that appeared to mimic the police version of affairs. Two of these incidents are now under official investigation. In defense of Dr. Hanley, I do not believe there was any malicious intent behind his actions, simply a recognition that he could no longer cope with the demands of his job and a compensatory willingness to place too much confidence in the "hunches" of certain police officers. I should say that in most cases this would not be a cause for concern�most of the deaths we see are "natural"�but clearly it could create problems where facts are disputed.

  4. I can say with absolute certainty that Dr. Hanley would have had no racist motive for ignoring evidence of murder in the case of Miss Butts. I am black myself and never experienced any sort of prejudice at his hands. He was a kindly man who had no interest in politics and clearly found his job distressing, particularly when he was obliged to open the chest cavities of women and children, which he began to see as an "unnecessary mutilation."

  5. In the absence of a file, I am afraid there is very little assistance I can give you other than to support Professor Webber's interpretation of the photographs. As mentioned above, nine sets of case notes seem to be missing and there is some evidence that Dr. Hanley destroyed them himself prior to leaving the department. In view of his long service record, a decision was taken to allow him to "work out" a three-month notice and we believe he used that time to remove any files that he believed to contain questionable findings. Sadly, he appeared to become deeply confused about the "examiner's" role in society and consistently questioned the value of "righteous judges." However, there is no proof of this and any such speculation could never be used in court.

  In conclusion, I am happy to give my permission for this letter to be used as supporting evidence for the deterioration in Dr. Hanley's performance and standard of work during the years I worked with him, all of which is already in the public domain. Beyond that, I can only advise you to gather as much supporting evidence as you can, from whichever source, in order to present a tight and compelling argument for a reopening of the investigation into Miss Butts's death.

  Trusting this is of help,

  With all best wishes,

  A. Deverill

  Dr. Anthony Deverill

  *14*

  I took the train to London on my own the following Monday. It caused a row because I refused to tell Sam where I was going or what I was planning to do, and he drove off in a huff after dropping me at Dorchester South station at eight o'clock in the morning. His mood had been depressed since Danny's throwaway line about rats jumping ship�It wasn't like that ... I needed time to get my head together ... Jock was on my back all the time trying to persuade me to make you take those flaming tranquillizers ... He said you needed help ... he said you'd flipped ... he said ... he said�and his temper was not improved by my sour comment that if Jock was such a guru he should be talking to him and not to me.

  I didn't keep tabs on him, so when I set out on Monday morning I had no idea if he'd taken my advice or not. I thought it unlikely. Sam wasn't the type to poke a sleeping dog unnecessarily, particularly when he was the most afraid of being bitten.

  I found Graham Road changed beyond recognition that August morning. It had become a one-way street with speed bumps down the center. Parking was restricted to permit holders only, and trucks were
banned. The houses were smarter than I remembered, the pavements wider, the sunlight brighter and more diffuse. It had lived for so long in my memory as a dark, foreboding place that I found myself wondering what else my mind had poisoned over the years. Or perhaps it wasn't my memory that was at fault? Perhaps Annie's death had actually achieved something?

  I glanced at number 5 as I passed and was put to shame by its natty appearance. Someone had lavished the love and care on it that we should have done. Window boxes splashed the front with brilliant color, a new stained wood door had taken the place of our elderly blue one and the tiny front garden, barely three feet deep, boasted a neat brick wall, tubs of scarlet petunias and a semicircle of clipped green grass beside the path to the door. Nor was it alone. Here and there, untidy front gardens and peeling paintwork spoke of residents who were unable or unwilling to conform, but for the most part the road had moved decisively upmarket and made sense of Jock's statement that property prices had skyrocketed.

  I guessed that some of that was due to the sale of the council-owned properties, which had stood out like sore thumbs twenty years before because of their uniform yellow doors. Now it was impossible to distinguish them from those that had always been in the private sector, and I wondered how many of them were still owned by the council tenants who had bought at rock-bottom prices. If Wendy Stanhope was to be believed, most of them had sold up within a year to achieve a 100 percent return on their investment, but the wiser ones had stayed and watched their investments grow.

  I crossed the road and paused beside Sharon Percy's gate. Her house was almost as natty as ours, with Austrian blinds in the windows and a clump of Pampas grass in the front garden, but I couldn't believe she hadn't cut and run the minute she saw a profit. I knew she'd bought the house because Libby's letters had ranted on for months about how Jock's thirty quid a week had paid for Sharon's bedroom, but I found it difficult to equate the new subdued classiness of number 28 with the simpering peroxide blonde in Wendy's photograph.