Winding Up the Serpent (12 page)

‘What now?' he said, then seemed to regret his abruptness. ‘Sorry. It can be difficult being a GP in a small town. It's tricky dining with people one night and the next day peering into their insides. Besides ...' He blinked. ‘Secrecy ...' He looked at her then with bright, shining eyes. ‘Secrecy,' he said again. ‘It's so important. Secrecy must be preserved at all costs.'

Joanna felt uncomfortable but she nodded.

‘You know ... it's only now – since she died – that I realize. I hardly knew Marilyn at all.' The doctor was watching her face very carefully. ‘Although we worked together – met every day for the past few years – I didn't really know her. You see,' he added, ‘we only really met at work.' He reinforced this point a little too emphatically for her liking.

Was it the nasty, suspicious police mind that made her think, ‘Doth protest too much'?

‘Like I said before, she was good at her job,' the doctor continued.

He dropped his eyes suddenly and Joanna knew he was not being straight with her.

Why? What was the point?

Again she felt uneasy. Of all the people who could best mimic a natural or puzzling death she feared doctors most. They had knowledge. They also had the means. And if Marilyn had been murdered, it had been a carefully concealed act.

‘Was she very fond of her mother?' she asked. ‘Unduly upset at her death?'

‘Not particularly,' the doctor said. ‘She had some time off for the funeral and to dispose of the house and things.' He thought for a moment. ‘No,' he said finally. ‘I can't say she seemed very upset.'

‘Was she depressed lately?'

He shook his head. ‘No – she wasn't.'

She looked at him again and smiled encouragingly. ‘What sort of a person was she? What did she look like? Was she pretty?'

The doctor looked at her. ‘Inspector,' he said patiently. ‘You've seen the photograph. I wasn't having an affair with my nurse. Why do you people have to be so suspicious?'

‘It's my job,' she said shortly. ‘And I'm fumbling in the dark, Doctor. I'm heading out in all sorts of directions ... working blind. And until I have a cause of death I can't drop the case or direct my investigations towards something more relevant.'

He met her eyes. ‘I sympathize, Inspector,' he said, and she found herself thinking – as had no doubt countless previous patients – what lovely eyes he had, direct and fearless, honest but tired. He looked as though his life had been trying.

‘You never knew Marilyn alive, did you?' he asked.

She shook her head. ‘No.'

He stopped for a minute, then said quietly, ‘If you had known her you would realize. Nothing – nothing that ever happened to her was inexplicable.'

Joanna stared at him, puzzled. Taking advantage of the pause in questioning, Dr Wilson muttered something about house calls, stood up and left the room.

She decided to tackle the receptionists again. They needed little encouragement.

‘All this fuss,' said Sally venomously. ‘You know, she would have loved it – revelled in it. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she planned the whole damned thing.'

‘It's possible,' Joanna said cautiously.

Sally tossed her head in disgust. ‘Honestly,' she said. ‘You said she didn't have a boyfriend. Did anyone ever come to see her here? Friends?'

It was Maureen who answered. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘No,' she said. ‘I never met any. No one ever came here for her except patients.'

Joanna frowned. Except patients ...

‘Which patients came regularly?' she asked.

The receptionists glanced quickly at one another. ‘Lots of them ... diabetics and asthmatics, anyone with chronic disease.'

She bit her lip, leaned forwards in her chair. Anyone who didn't have a chronic disease?' she asked.

‘Well ...' Sally was floundering.

It was Maureen who came to her rescue. ‘One or two,' she said.

‘Who?'

‘A few people we did wonder about,' the receptionist said. ‘The undertaker was one of them.'

‘Do you mean Paul Haddon?'

‘Every month,' Sally confirmed. ‘First Thursday in the month.'

‘Very angry he was sometimes.'

‘Angry?'

The receptionist glanced through the hatch into the patients' waiting room. ‘He'd pace up and down there in a fury, getting redder and redder.

‘You want to watch it, Mr Haddon,' I said. ‘You'll make your blood pressure worse.'

She paused. ‘Swore at me, he did. Nothing wrong with my effing blood pressure. Cheeky thing.'

‘Well, perhaps he had another illness?'

‘When Smithy came out I asked her. What's wrong with that undertaker ...? She was that haughty when she answered. ‘Blood pressure ... What I say is, Inspector – one of them was lying.'

Joanna made a mental note to speak to the undertaker. ‘Anyone else?'

The two women looked at each other. ‘I don't think there was much up with that antique dealer.'

Joanna pricked up her ears. ‘Was he a frequent visitor?'

‘Few times a year ...'

‘And in the same bad temper,' Maureen added. ‘There was more to those visits than met the eye.'

Sally looked at Joanna. ‘Who's had Ben?' she asked. ‘I can't imagine him with anyone but Marilyn. She wouldn't even have a holiday abroad because of Ben.'

‘I'm afraid Ben's had to be put down,' Joanna said.

Both women nodded regretfully.

‘She would have wanted that,' Sally averred. ‘She told me once that if she died she wanted Ben put down. I thought it was a shame – told her so.'

‘What did she say?' Joanna asked curiously.

‘Gave a little laugh and one of those superior smiles of hers. “Ben would rather be dead than live without me”,' Sally mimicked.

‘Ben had no bloody choice,' Maureen said bitterly. ‘Sadistic cow.'

And this gave another ugly twist to the dead woman's character. If denied life herself she wanted her beloved pet to share death.

‘And you're sure you can't recall her talking about any relatives?' Joanna pressed.

‘She told us she was the last of a long line.' Maureen dropped her chin on to her chest in a sceptical glance. ‘Believe that if you want. There was no touch of class about her. She just liked to pretend. Long line ...' She grimaced. ‘Long line of whores.'

Joanna's mind was cast back involuntarily to the pink-tinged bedroom ... splayed legs ... Make-believe had played a large part in the dead woman's life. The trouble was sorting out the truth from the lies. Somewhere in a haze of pink chiffon and cheap scent was a fact. Marilyn Smith was dead. Perhaps the visit to her origins this afternoon would be enlightening.

‘Do you know where she came from?'

‘Yes, I think it was Cardiff.' Sally was frowning in concentration. ‘I'm sure she said it was Cardiff.'

That – at least – was right.

‘She definitely wasn't a local girl.'

‘I thought I could hear that bit of Welsh in her voice. Didn't you think so, Maureen?'

Maureen nodded vaguely. ‘Perhaps,' she said.

Joanna frowned. ‘What exactly did she say to you about her affair with a married man? Was it true?'

‘Who knows...?' Sally's eyes met hers. ‘Who knew with Marilyn what was the truth and what was a pack of lies?'

‘Sometimes,' Maureen said quietly, ‘I don't think even she knew what was the truth and what was lies. I think she deceived herself so bloody completely she started to believe her own stories.'

And the underwear, Joanna thought. An extension to the self-deception? She glanced from one woman to the other.

‘Can you tell me,' she asked tentatively, ‘any more about relations between Dr Wilson and Marilyn? You told me before that she gave him no peace. Why didn't he ask her to leave?'

The two women looked at one another.

‘I'd see him
look
at her sometimes as though he could have given her her cards, but ...'

‘He wouldn't dare.' Maureen's face was round and incredulous. ‘His wife wouldn't have let him.'

‘Mrs Wilson?' Joanna said. ‘What's she got to do with it?'

‘It was through her that Marilyn Smith got the job.'

Joanna pricked up her ears. ‘Do go on,' she said softly.

‘Mrs Wilson left years ago to have the baby,' Sally explained. ‘It was all ever so sad. She used to be the nurse here. It worked very well. She and Dr Wilson always got on like a house on fire. And she was a wonderful nurse – ever so kind and sweet. Anyway, she left to have the baby and Marilyn came. They were old friends, you see. They were nurses together in Birmingham, where Dr Wilson trained.'

‘Do you mean,' Joanna said slowly, ‘that Dr Wilson knew Marilyn before she came to work here?'

‘Yes ...' Sally seemed surprised that Joanna did not know. ‘Mrs Wilson and Marilyn were best friends. Didn't you know?'

He had deliberately concealed the fact.

‘No,' she said shortly. ‘I didn't.' She hadn't known because he hadn't told her. The innocent, hard-working doctor was not quite all he had pretended to be.

‘And how many children do they have now?' she asked, more to conceal her irritation than for any other reason. But the effect was dramatic.

The receptionists looked at one another again. Sally was pale. Maureen drew in a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes filled with tears. She scrabbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, found one, dabbed her eyes and looked at Joanna. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘It was a few years ago but I still feel awful when I remember.'

Joanna could only watch. ‘Children?' she prompted delicately.

It died.' Maureen's face looked stricken. ‘Just a few months old and he died.' She sniffed loudly.

‘And Mrs Wilson didn't return to work?'

The reaction surprised her. The redhead's eyes glittered. ‘That poor woman,' she said fiercely. ‘She's got nothing to do with this. Nothing at all. You just leave her out of it.'

Joanna made a mental note to do nothing of the sort.

‘She's been ill ever since the baby died,' Maureen continued reluctantly. ‘She doesn't go out of the house. The doctor does all the shopping as well as working here. He does everything for her – even buys her clothes. I've seen him,' she said defensively as Sally gave her a sharp look, ‘in Marks and Spencer.'

Joanna stood up to leave. ‘Thank you,' she said, ‘you've been a real help.'

‘Where the bloody hell have you been?'

Mike was in a rage when she finally arrived back at the station. ‘I thought we were going to Cardiff.'

‘Tomorrow,' she said.

He looked disgruntled.

‘I told my old lady we were off there today.'

She shrugged. ‘What's the difference? Anyway,' she sat down, ‘I've been to the surgery and found out some rather interesting facts ...' Quickly she filled him in.

He still looked sour. ‘Puts the doctor in a slightly different light, doesn't it?'

She was forced to agree.

‘Hardly bloody Albert Schweitzer, is he?'

‘Even doctors are human,' she said.

He gave an ugly smile. ‘Aren't they just?' he said.

She ignored his comment. ‘Get back to the facts, Mike,' she said. ‘If everyone says Marilyn's mother died four or five years ago and that's where all the money came from, who the hell is writing her letters signing them love Mum, and where the heck did all the money come from?' She gave a deep sigh. ‘The trouble with this case is, yes, there are lots of lies. But there are facts, too. There was a lot of money. It did come from somewhere. The blasted woman is dead. But practically everything else is fog, lies and ...' She ran her fingers through her hair and cupped her chin in her hand. ‘So where are we, Mike?' she said slowly. ‘Do you smell blackmail?'

‘Maybe,' he said cautiously.

‘And what can follow from blackmail?'

He scowled. ‘We've no evidence of murder.'

She pointed her finger at him. ‘That's what worries me,' she said. ‘Evidence. How many times have you and I known a truth and had no evidence? It doesn't take the truth away – it simply makes it impossible to prove in a court of law.'

He stared at her, his shoulders rigid, then slowly he nodded. ‘You're right,' he said simply. ‘You're right.'

‘So,' she said, ‘now you know why I'm not dropping the case.'

‘Right,' he said again.

He pulled up a chair and flipped a report across the desk. ‘You'll want to read these,' he said. ‘The forensic report on the bedding they took away and some more results from the path lab.'

‘Thanks, Mike.'

He stood up. ‘Want a coffee?' He spoke casually. It fooled neither of them and she knew the effort had cost him. He was not a natural tea boy.

‘Thank you,' she said again.

Bedding ... Her eyes scanned quickly down the sheet, picking out points of interest. No semen ... Hair found, dark brown, some grey, various dyes and rinses, permed around four months ago.

Her thoughts went back to the Christmas photograph on the noticeboard in the doctor's reception area. Christmas – recently permed. She glanced again at the report. Other hair found, pubic hair, similar to the sample taken from the body.

She looked at the second page. Fibres – natural cotton, polyester ... similar to samples ... silk and some black nylon ... It all matched.

Mike returned with the coffee and slid a sachet of sugar and another of dried milk across the desk to her.

‘Didn't know whether you took it,' he said grumpily, and she knew comments had been made at the coffee machine. Sucking up to your boss ... Demoted to tea boy? She could well imagine it.

He perched on the edge of the desk and drank his coffee. ‘There isn't a single sample that doesn't match items in her wardrobe,' he said. ‘And the report on the stomach contents revealed what we thought: a meal of steak, chips, salad.' He bit his lip. ‘There was one thing, though – there was a capsule ... partially digested.'