Winding Up the Serpent (4 page)

Inside, the house was a riot of colour: florid petunia wallpaper in the hall, violent magenta paintwork and vividly patterned carpets. They stepped into their first room.

It took less than three minutes for them to find the source of the smell. Mike stepped in the heap that Ben had deposited in desperation behind the chintz-covered sofa in the sitting room.

Leaving the three policemen downstairs, Joanna walked up the short staircase towards the threat of the first floor. She drew a blank in the bathroom: dropped clothes scattered on the floor and an oily tide-mark in the bath. There was a faint scent of musk as though the occupant had had an exotic douse a few hours before. She found it a disturbing presence.

The first bedroom was small, neat and yellow and it appeared unused; the second was a turquoise room set out specially for visitors.

It was in the third bedroom that she found the missing nurse. Again the room was brightly decorated. The curtains were drawn but gusts of wind billowed them aside so the light alternated between dappled sunshine and the rather dingy pink blush shed by two shaded lamps. The effect was seedy, artificial. But it was one of movement. Not so the woman lying on the bed.

Joanna stared at her, appalled by the theatrical, brothel-like backdrop of the room with its main figure, the whore, lying on the bed. She had expected to find something different in the nurse's house. Not this.

‘Oh, God,' she said softly. ‘Oh, God.'

Marilyn Smith was lying spreadeagled across the bed, a plump figure bursting out of a tight, black, boned corset. She wore suspenders, black stockings with a wide ladder running the whole length, from the swell of her plump bulging thigh to her stocky calf, which ended in high-heeled, courtesan's shoes. She wore thick, greasy makeup – plenty of it – and her red, lipsticked mouth dropped open. Her eyes were not quite closed and peered glassily from beneath violet-smeared lids, rimmed with heavy black lines.

Joanna moved towards the bed and took in other details – the pads of white flesh that bulged between the tops of the stockings and the lace-covered crotch, sprouting dark pubic hair – and her feelings wavered between revulsion and swamping pity for the dead woman. But all the time she was noting the details she would eventually relate to the coroner. Tuck away any dangerous and blushing comparisons, Inspector, she thought. This is a victim on the bed; not you.

There is no confusing death. No one looking over a dead person could wonder whether they still lived. Because there is a colour of death – a blotched paleness, lividity of the lower limbs where the blood has drained. The eyes are those of a dead fish and the skin sags. There is a draining too of personality and then there is a chill. Because a dead person gives out no warmth. Joanna drew in a deep breath to push away nausea. She had never quite got used to the presence of the Grim Reaper, especially when presented in such an obscene pose.

She stared with a mounting, sick feeling at what could only be described as Marilyn's seduction garments, black lace, suspenders, legs dropped apart displaying to the full a scarlet and black G-string, breasts forced prominent by firm boning of a black basque, arms stretched upwards in an abandoned pose revealing recently shaved underarms. Joanna peered closer and noted specks of blood from the shaving, mingled with beads of cold sweat. The curtains blew open suddenly and Marilyn Smith lay exposed in harsh daylight on top of an unrumpled bed. The next moment the curtains dropped and the scene was illuminated as it must have been the night before with the pink, intimate glow. The thought struck her that it must have looked like this when this woman died. She shuddered, stepped back and touched a half-empty bottle of champagne tipped over on the carpet. She stared at the familiar black label with its gold lettering and knew she would never drink Duval-Lercy again, that it would always bear the taint of this sordid and ugly scene, the seamy, unbeautiful side of sex. She crossed to the window, open narrowly but on the catch. She stared out, careful to touch nothing. It was a long drop. Too far for someone to jump or to have climbed and there was no convenient flat roof, ivy or drainpipe.

‘Mike!' she shouted. ‘Mike, I've found her. She's here.'

All the time she had stood in the bedroom the professional in her was noting down details: the single glass that lay on the bedside table, the copies of
Vogue
carefully placed around the room, the bunches and bunches of dusty silk flowers, cheap prints, the CD player still awaiting further instruction.
All By Myself
...
Greatest Love Songs
, the scent of cheap, commercial air freshener and strong, assailing perfume, sweat. And the woman in her was revolted by the tackiness of the scene. There was no mistaking the function of this room. She shivered and watched the curtains move. Suddenly she felt faint.

‘God.' Mike was standing behind her and she almost fell against the burly shoulders. ‘What have we here? It's like a...' He paused, stuck for words, and it was this inability to articulate that allowed her rank to surface, her faintness to evaporate and for her to begin studying the scene without the fog of emotion.

Yes – what did they have here?

A dead body – certainly.

A murder? Possibly.

A suicide? Again possibly.

An unexpected death – a sudden death. That much was certain. Marilyn Smith had not gone to bed expecting death to call.

‘We need to ring the doctor,' she said.

‘Dr Wilson?'

She shook her head. ‘No – Dr Bose, the police surgeon. And we need the scenes of crimes officers and the photographer. I'll speak to the coroner,' she added. ‘There will have to be a post-mortem.'

The wheels had to be set in motion. Sudden, so-far-inexplicable death. On the surface it was only the clothing that suggested anything but death by natural causes. Drugs – or suicide was a possibility. But Joanna knew she had to be aware. There might be, in the background, lurking, a murderer a little cleverer than the usual bloody thug who struck out in temper without forethought or planning. She glanced back at the bed. Judging by the seductive clothes it seemed reasonable to suggest that Marilyn Smith had been expecting a man last night. But if a man had come into this room his motive had been far from the romantic evening Marilyn had so obviously planned.

Champagne, soft music, perfume and seduction, then death. What had really happened?

Mike looked at her. ‘So what now, Inspector?' he said. She knew he was testing her. It would all be reported later on in the pub. Guess what the stupid cow did then. Raucous laughter, incredulity ...

She met the challenge. ‘We use our eyes, Mike, and wait for Dr Bose. Come on,' she said. ‘Look around. See what's here, staring at us.'

Mike blinked. ‘I suppose it could be drugs,' he replied slowly. ‘Ecstasy, cocaine, crack ... Maybe she tried something' – his tone was dubious – ‘and it didn't mix with the alcohol.' He paused for a minute then when she said nothing he spoke defensively. ‘I can't see what else it could have been. We've had a good look round downstairs. There isn't any sign of a break-in.'

He glanced at the figure lying on the bed. ‘She doesn't look as though she's been murdered.'

‘No blood?' she asked sarcastically.

‘Well ... you know what I mean.'

She knew – only too well. The picture of murder was always spattered blood – not helped by the invasion of too many American movies. ‘Go on,' she said.

He motioned at the bed. ‘It looks neat,' he said. ‘Too neat and tidy.'

Joanna nodded. ‘Yes,' she said, then glanced at the bottle of champagne. ‘Alone? Dressed like this?' She waved a hand at the black corseting. ‘I suppose it's just possible.'

The body was not flung, not fallen but lying almost comfortably on top of an unrumpled continental quilt. She knew that Mike's suggestion seemed the obvious one. Perhaps the SOCOs would find the twist of paper, the syringe, the usual signs. She walked round to the far side of the bed and almost kicked over a small, wicker wastepaper basket. Carefully she slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and picked something out.

She held it up. ‘Look at this. Price labels, neatly cut off.'

She fished out another object, a polythene bag of the type expensive stockings are sold in. ‘Mike,' she said slowly. ‘It's all new. Everything she's wearing is brand new.'

She looked again at one of the labels in her hand. ‘And expensive.' She dropped the labels into a regulation plastic bag.

‘Bloody hell,' Mike said, over her shoulder. ‘Eighty quid.' He whistled quietly.

Joanna looked with pity at the spreadeagled body, plump, white, undignified – a body dressed to attract which now merely repelled.

‘Poor cow,' she said softly. ‘Silk purses, sows' ears, oh, damn.'

Mike shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Can't we cover her over, ma'am, make her decent or something?'

‘Decent?' The word seemed out of place here, wrong – ridiculously so. She was almost tempted to laugh. Instead she spoke in a calm, flat voice. ‘You know the rules,' she said. ‘I don't want anything touched. And for the record, Sergeant, I think it would take a damned sight more than a clean sheet to make this woman decent.'

He met her comments with a mocking look. ‘Judging her already, Inspector? And I think you've decided it's murder already without ...' he wagged his finger in front of her face ‘a shred of evidence to suggest it.'

‘Come on, Mike,' she said, waving an expansive arm around the room. ‘There's everything to support it. This room feels like a ...' she paused, ‘a love nest, but the main character is missing. Where's the man – or sign of him?'

Mike chewed his lip. ‘It's a drugs-related accidental death or an expensive suicide,' he said. ‘The drama came from her.' He pointed his index finger straight at the dead woman's head. ‘Like those film stars, ma'am. She couldn't quite make it in life so she dies the way she wants it – stylish.'

Joanna raised her eyebrows. ‘Maybe, Mike, but let's not make premature judgements. They account for some of the biggest cock-ups the legal system has ever known.'

Mike scowled. His neck grew a fierce red and he mumbled something about seeing whether the police surgeon had arrived yet.

In a couple of minutes he was back, shaking his head. ‘No sign.' He joined her at the window. ‘Ma'am,' he said, ‘No one came in this way. It's a clean sill, and no one could have hooked this window on the catch. This woman died alone.' His eyes looked hard and bright. ‘Inspector,' he said softly, ‘take my advice. Don't make a tit of yourself by making this one up to a full-blown murder investigation just to justify your pips. It's obvious what happened. It has to be drugs. She simply dressed up and OD'd.'

‘Thank you, Mike,' she said. ‘Thank you very very much. I really needed your advice. I don't know how I've got so far without it.'

He went red and looked around the bedroom.

Joanna felt suddenly overwhelmed by the claustrophobic atmosphere. ‘It's so damned sordid, isn't it?' she muttered, but Mike's face was set.

‘She died on her tod in this pathetic, make-believe love nest,' he said stubbornly.

She felt her shoulders sag. ‘Oh – I hate that word.'

‘What – tod?'

‘No,' she said softly. ‘Love nest,' and she winced.

A gust of wind threw the curtain upwards and she sniffed. ‘Perfume,' she said. ‘Can you smell it? Strong perfume.' She sniffed again. ‘And no aftershave.'

But the scent brought her to a definite conclusion. ‘She was waiting for a lover,' she said. ‘He might not have turned up but she was waiting for a lover.'

Then, ‘I want the scene of crimes men to strip this room completely. Take the house apart if necessary. I want to know who the man is. Tell forensics I want every bloody cell from that bed.'

She looked at Mike thoughtfully. ‘All right,' she said. ‘I may be wrong. I'm prepared to admit I may be barking up the wrong tree, but I bet my bottom dollar she had sex last night and I want to know with whom.'

Mike was near the door. ‘So the missing lover is “our man”, madam.' He spoke in an appalling mockery of a cheap New York twang.

‘I intend to find out. And Mike,' she glanced at the set face, ‘don't call me madam, will you? My name's Joanna. Every now and then you forget yourself and call me that. Just do it all the time, will you please?'

Mike shook his head. ‘No,' he said simply. ‘It's what you are. It's the recommended form of address. Page th—'

‘Right.' Joanna blazed back at him. ‘Now instead of hanging around here go and speak to her doctor. Perhaps he knows something that'll have some bearing on this. Heart complaint, diabetes or something.'

It had been a mistake to send Mike away. The room was silent. There was no movement except the fluttering curtains and the sharp click as the digital clock display numbers altered, ticking minutes away. Left alone she tried to ignore the still figure on the bed. But she shivered. Death should never be so sordid. Marilyn Smith deserved more dignity in her final pose. She glanced around, noting details ... one bottle of sleeping pills – thirty dispensed. How many left? She opened the tiny drawer in the bedside cabinet. No birth control pills, or other contraceptive device. Of course, she thought, this did not necessarily rule out male presence.

Next she opened the larger drawers beneath and found nothing but layers of neatly folded underwear, plenty of black but nothing quite as exotic as the clothes she had died in. And the drawers in the fitted wardrobes revealed little else, various paperbacks, perfume, cosmetics.

But the cursory examination of the room failed to reveal two things – there was neither suicide note nor obvious sign of intent to commit suicide, nor evidence of the presence of another person. The central pillow on the bed had only one indentation in it. The bed itself was neat, unrumpled. Joanna peered at it. No hair, no parallel body shape in the bed, no sign that another man – or woman – had been here last night. She grimaced. The SOCOs would have to pay particular attention to the bed for it to surrender its secrets.