Winding Up the Serpent Read Online Free PDF Page B

possibly.
    An unexpected death – a sudden death. That much was certain. Marilyn Smith had not gone to bed expecting death to call.
    â€˜We need to ring the doctor,’ she said.
    â€˜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?

Chapter 4
    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.’
    â€˜No blood?’ she asked sarcastically.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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