Winding Up the Serpent (3 page)

‘Jack,' he said, ‘you're very bad today. You need the hospital. I can't keep you alive here.' He spoke slowly and clearly in short sentences.

The old man understood. He closed his eyes and answered in a dry, rasping voice. ‘If I'm too bad for home, Doctor, I'm too bad to live. No hospital for me. I don't want a couple of days – maybe months – bought at that price.'

The pauses between words grew longer and on the last word he closed his eyes. Neither of the two people watching would have been surprised if he had not spoken again.

His wife touched Jonah's arm. ‘Let 'im stay here, Doctor. If 'is time has come so be it.' Her face was set and hard, unsmiling, her leathered complexion timeless, strong and unyielding. The moors toughened their women.

Jonah nodded. ‘So be it.'

The old man struggled to open his eyes. ‘Yes, Doctor. She's right.' He snapped the oxygen mask back over his nose and mouth. It steamed up with his breath and the wrinkled eyelids closed again wearily. His face was gaunt and grey with the struggle.

‘I can give you an injection,' Jonah said. ‘It'll help the breathing.' He looked again at the old man. ‘Are you sure you wouldn't like a bed in the hospital – just to give your wife a break?'

The old man clawed the doctor's hand and he shook his head. ‘No,' he said. ‘I'll die if I go in there.'

Jonah bit back the obvious answer. He took from his bag a syringe and an ampoule of Aminophylline. Carefully he put a tourniquet on the skinny arm, selected a prominent blue rope vein and drove the drug in. The old man's eyes closed.

By three in the afternoon the dog's obvious distress was becoming more than Evelyn could bear. She stood with her cup of tea by the kitchen window, listening to the yowling.

She was suddenly so sure that Marilyn would not appear in the doorway and climb into the car as she had watched her do a thousand times that Evelyn did an unbelievable thing. She took a deep breath, unlocked the front door, marched through the pink lions rampant on Marilyn's gatepost, walked up to the front door, raised the letterbox and dropped it again, pressed the doorbell and shouted Marilyn's name. Her voice bounced around the walls.

But the dog bounded down the stairs with a fierce growl and it terrified her so she ran back to the house and rang the surgery again.

‘Please,' she spoke into the phone, ‘please, is Marilyn Smith there? Something is wrong with her dog.' The words tumbled out and she replaced the receiver without giving the other end a chance to speak.

In the surgery Maureen, who had taken the call, stood and stared at the telephone, blinking behind owlish glasses. She felt cold and uneasy. Dead hands stole up her back. ‘It was that person again,' she said, ‘asking for Sister Smith.'

‘Ring the police,' Sally said decisively. ‘Ring them now.' And when her colleague didn't move she grabbed the phone. ‘Ring the bloody police.'

The slick white car with its fluorescent pink strip had been cruising near the market square, its occupants checking that inconsiderately parked cars were not blocking the narrow road and keeping an eye on a gang of youths clustered outside the video shop, when it took the call. It switched on its flashing blue light and sped up the High Street, turned right into Silk Street and arrived minutes later. The two uniformed policemen crunched up the gravel drive and in passing tried the door of the parked car. It was locked. They knocked at the front door and were rewarded by Ben's frantic barks.

They looked at one another uncertainly. ‘I don't fancy meeting him face to face,' said one of them.

They shouted through the letterbox, feeling slightly foolish. ‘Hello! Anyone at home? Are you there, Miss Smith? He-ll-o! Hello, Miss Smith. Mar-i-lun!'

Only the dog responded and they quickly dropped the flap. They walked around the back of the house, trying windows while the dog followed them from room to room, alternating mad barks with hostile growls. They watched him through the window, then went back to the car and sent a message over the radio.

‘No one around, dog going mad. No sign of a break-in. Have to get in but need help with the dog.'

‘Message received ... Over.'

Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski replaced the receiver, scribbling down the details in his notebook.

He knew instinctively this was no hoax. They wouldn't break in then meet her returning from a night away or a shopping spree. That much they knew from the dog's behaviour, but out of habit Mike tried Marilyn Smith's number himself. As he had expected, no one picked up the phone. He replaced the set.

He ran over the facts quickly in his mind... A single woman, fortyish, lived alone, in good health. Unexpectedly she had failed to turn up at work. She had not answered the phone and a couple of strange telephone calls had been made to the surgery, asking for her then hanging up without leaving a name. Car in the drive, locked. No obvious sign of a break-in, according to the uniformed lads. Dog whining.

And this was the alarm call. According to the surgery she was devoted to the dog; they were inseparable. She never left him except when she went to work and then the dog was safely put in a pen outside. DS Korpanski glanced at the closed door and grimaced. He supposed he'd have to tell her.

Mike, as he liked to be called, was more than six feet tall, dark-eyed with black hair bottle-brush short, and a thick bull neck. His father had been a loyal Pole, tempted to fight for the British, then seduced to stay by a local woman. Mike was their only, adored son. Devoted to body building, his shape revealed the hours he spent every week at the gym, pumping iron. With bulging biceps, a straight, strong back and heavy hamstrings, he was a popular member of the force, a supervisory officer for the juniors to emulate. And cheerful, too, with a ready grin and a good nature – except when he was either embarrassed or angry or both, as he was now. He knocked on DI Piercy's door and waited, despising himself for having to stand outside until her whim called him in.

He planted himself legs apart in front of her desk, so close he could almost have touched the thick dark hair that just touched the crisp white blouse. Her hands rolled a pen between her slim fingers as she listened to what he had to say, her head tilted upwards, intelligent blue eyes fixing on his as she concentrated. And the furrow between her eyebrows, which never quite left her face even when she laughed, deepened as she frowned. It took him seconds to fill her in and he watched her eyes shine at the challenge and knew that however wide the gulf was between them – and it was wide – they shared at least one thing – love of the work.

As soon as he had finished she cleared her throat and fired a few abrupt questions.

‘Who was it who rang the surgery?'

‘We don't know.'

‘When was she last seen?'

‘Yesterday, about five, when she left work.'

Without saying another word she stood up, unhooked her jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on over the white blouse.

‘Lead on,' she said smartly. ‘Lead on, Sergeant.'

‘Yes, madam.' The tight sarcasm made his voice sound tired and disillusioned. He felt suddenly bitter as she moved towards the door, unmistakably feminine, a waft of light, clean perfume that touched his nostrils emphasizing the fact.

Joanna tightened her mouth at his tone and her frank smile evaporated.

‘Did you say there was a dog?' she asked sharply.

He nodded. ‘Yes, a German Shepherd and the neighbour said it's trained as a guard dog. Apparently it acts like a bodyguard to the woman.'

‘Very sensible,' she said approvingly, ‘for a single woman, living alone.' She met Mike's eyes unflinchingly. ‘Perhaps I should invest in one, Sergeant.'

He nodded. ‘Perhaps you should.' He stood awkwardly, miserably uncertain, finding his position too uncomfortable until she spoke decisively.

‘So ring the vet.'

Mike flushed. ‘Right, ma'am.'

The vet turned up in an old mud-splattered green Landrover.

Joanna wrinkled her nose. ‘Have you driven through a cowshed to get here?'

The vet laughed, taking no offence. ‘Scent of the country, Inspector,' he said. ‘If you want to work in an area that stinks of CFCs and “Country Meadow” from Sainsbury's you'd better return to the city. I happen to prefer the real thing.' He grinned at her and held out his hand. ‘Inspector Piercy, I presume. I'm Roderick Beeston.'

She found it difficult to resent his good-natured, blunt manner. Instead she smiled. ‘I think we have a difficult dog,' she said.

The vet's eyes narrowed. ‘Really?'

There was a good-humoured look on his face but she knew his opinion was that it was never the dog who was difficult. She hurried Mike into the squad car and the vet followed in the Landrover.

She glanced back at him a couple of times during the journey and saw him grinning at her over the wheel, one hand casually waving while the other loosely steered the car. Once he gave a vigorous thumbs-up sign and mouthed some words. She could not guess what. His window was wide open as he drew parallel to them at the traffic lights.

‘I know Ben,' he shouted, ‘guards his mistress well. He'd have you for breakfast and still want his sausages.'

She blushed and gave a tight smile and they started up as the lights changed, turned right then left and left again into Silk Street. Mike pulled up outside number 19 behind the first squad car.

‘This looks like the house.'

She raised her eyebrows at the pair of pink lions that sat on the gateposts and wondered what sort of woman lived here and what they would find inside. Then she looked up at the detached, red-brick house with its UPVC double glazing, fancy Austrian blinds festooning the windows.

She followed the green oilskin and wellies of the vet and the heavy footsteps of DS Korpanski, passing the new red Vauxhall Astra in the drive.

‘She did well for a nurse,' she remarked. ‘Unless there's been a rich husband in the past.'

The vet scratched his grizzled beard. ‘That sounds a remarkably sexist statement,' he said, ‘coming from Leek's first female police inspector.'

Joanna flushed again and turned to Mike. ‘She wasn't married?'

‘Not as far as I know.'

At the top of the drive they met the two uniformed police who looked slightly sheepish and apologetic.

‘We would have gone in,' one said, ‘if it hadn't been for the dog.'

Joanna stood for a moment. ‘It's OK,' she said absently. ‘Probably just as well anyway if there is anything to find – the fewer intrusions the better.' She frowned and looked at them. ‘Any broken windows – forced doors?'

‘No.' They shook their heads. ‘Nothing.'

She thought for a moment. ‘This place wasn't bought out of a nurse's salary.'

‘Or a policeman's,' Mike grunted. ‘Even an inspector's.'

She heard the hostility in his tone. ‘So is that it, Mike?' she said softly. ‘Money. And I was thinking it was purely sex.'

‘I've a family,' he said. ‘That needs money.'

She bit back all the retorts. ‘Let's get on with the job, for God's sake, Mike. Tuck the whole bloody package away – resentment, bitterness. There isn't any room for it. Let's just get on with the job. Besides,' she grinned, ‘an inspector's salary isn't that bloody brilliant. It isn't the gateway to the millionaires' club, you know. Now, shall we get on with the job?'

Mike's black eyes seemed to boil with anger but he said nothing.

Joanna banged on the front door. ‘Miss Smith ... Miss Smith! Are you in there?'

She hesitated for a moment then tried again, shouting through the letterbox. ‘Hello – is anyone at home?'

For answer they heard a deep growl followed by frenzied barking, and she drew back as the dog's black muzzle pushed against the letterbox. She looked at the vet. ‘Over to you.'

Roderick Beeston nodded and he pulled a canister out of his pocket. ‘I'd better give him a puffer,' he said, ‘before you bang much more on that door. It's going to send him mad and I know Ben. He's a big, bad dog.'

He winked at Mike, and Joanna could feel the empathy between the two men which seemed to extend to the uniformed officers standing behind them and which excluded her.

‘Well, get on with it, please,' she said crisply. ‘Something's wrong and the sooner we get inside that house the better. The woman might be ill.'

The vet took a canister from the back of the Landrover and a pair of thick leather gauntlets. Then he propped open the letterbox while the four police watched him. He gave a few short puffs to the excited dog and the barking softened then stopped and they heard a thud as the heavy dog hit the floor. The vet looked pleased. ‘General anaesthetic,' he said. ‘Lasts an hour.' He stuffed the canister back into his pocket. ‘Haven't used it before,' he said. ‘New on the market. Good stuff.'

‘Very interesting.' Joanna tried to ignore Mike's amused face. ‘Just the thing for a burglar faced with an aggressive dog.'

The vet looked at her. ‘It's on the market to reduce the number of dog bites to vets,' he said. ‘They can be a big problem and if; God forbid, rabies ever creeps along the Chunnel into Britain dog bites would be potentially lethal.' He frowned at her. ‘Even the police might be glad of a whiff of this stuff aimed in the right direction then. It isn't specifically targeted against the police force and for the house burglar. Don't be paranoid, Inspector,' he mocked. ‘There are plenty of good things on the market that can be put to bad use. Look at glue.'

Joanna ignored the comment and the irritation that pricked her. Instead she spoke to the two uniformed officers. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? We'd better break in.'

It wasn't difficult. Marilyn Smith had relied on the dog for security, and a quick tap on the glass in the door, followed by a loop of an arm through to open the Yale and they were inside, leaving the vet to care for the prostrate animal.