Winding Up the Serpent by Priscilla Masters Page B

– as I’m sure you understand – is never pleasant. There are often unanswered questions. Sometimes we never get the answer, Dr Wilson. But apart from having failed to discover the actual cause of death there are certain anomalies in this case.’
    He looked wearily at her. ‘It isn’t always possible to discover the cause of death,’ he said.
    She nodded. ‘We know that, Doctor. But Marilyn was dressed in a ... suggestive costume. We simply want to make sure.’
    His voice cracked. ‘You haven’t got a perverted rapist on the loose.’
    â€˜She wasn’t raped,’ Joanna said quietly.
    The doctor ran his fingers through his greying hair. It was sticking up like a cartoon character’s. ‘Then why?’ he said. ‘She wasn’t robbed, was she?’
    â€˜We don’t even know how they got in,’ she said.
    He suddenly frowned. ‘Anomalies?’ he queried.
    â€˜More money than she should have had ...’
    â€˜Her mother ...’
    â€˜We’re going to check it out.’
    She crossed her legs. ‘Now I just want to ask a few routine questions. Do you cover all your own nights, Doctor?’
    He gave a tired smile. ‘God – no,’ he said. ‘I join up with Sammy Bose’s practice by night. There are four of them,’ he added, ‘so it works out quite well. A one in five rota.’
    Something jerked in Joanna’s mind. ‘Does that mean,’ she asked slowly, ‘that on the nights you were on call you were Marilyn’s doctor too?’
    He laughed. ‘I suppose I was,’ he said. ‘I never thought about it. I suppose I was,’ he said slowly. ‘She never called me ...’
    â€˜And you were on call the night she died?’
    Jonah Wilson looked uneasy. ‘Now hang on, Inspector,’ he said. ‘If you’re suggesting—’
    â€˜I’m not suggesting anything,’ she said. ‘I’m merely trying to gather facts.’
    â€˜Well yes, then – I was.’
    â€˜Was it a busy night?’
    â€˜A few calls.’ His tone had changed. He was no longer the friendly doctor, employer of a dead woman. He was a suspect, rattled and defensive. ‘I’ve told you. I had to go out to Onecote.’
    â€˜At what time?’ Joanna was writing in her book.
    â€˜About eleven...’ He gave the address. ‘I was gone about three-quarters of an hour. She thought she had meningitis.’
    â€˜Ah yes, I remember. And it was a false alarm.’
    â€˜Yes. A bloody headache.’
    Joanna made a mental note to follow it up.
    She found the receptionists drinking coffee in the square room where the notes were kept. The room went quiet the instant she walked in. But when they offered her a cup she accepted and they began to relax. She looked at them curiously. ‘What was she like?’ she asked.
    The tall redhead, Sally, took down a photograph pinned to the noticeboard. ‘This was Marilyn,’ she said.
    There were four people in the picture: the two receptionists standing stiffly in paper hats, glasses in their hands. A plump woman, heavily made up, was draped around Dr Wilson. And even though the quality of the picture was poor Joanna could see that the doctor was as uneasy about the situation as Marilyn Smith was relishing it. Joanna looked closer.
    There was a lascivious smile on the woman’s face. Glossy lipstick, frizzled hair and her mouth slightly open. She was wearing a very short, tight black dress, which revealed inches of deep cleavage and rolls of fat around the waist. Red fingernails hung down the doctor’s tweed jacket. Marilyn was looking at him. He was staring unhappily into the camera.
    Sally looked over Joanna’s shoulder. ‘God,’ she said quietly. ‘If ever a woman had an obscene passion for a man, she did. Worshipped him. Made every sort of play she could. Gave the poor doctor no peace.