Shape of Snakes

Drury frowned as he flicked through them. 'It doesn't prove she wasn't buying vodka from a supermarket,' he said.

'No,' I agreed.

'Then it's not evidence.'

'Not on its own, perhaps, but if you look at the last two pages you'll see that several off-license managers remember Maureen Slater as a vodka drinker. One of them describes how she used to come in after picking up her benefit money and buy half a dozen bottles at a time. He says he refused to serve her after she slapped one of her children-probably Alan-when he said he needed new shoes.'

'So? All that proves is Maureen bought vodka; it doesn't prove Annie didn't. What are you trying to say, anyway? That the Slaters put their bottles in Annie's kitchen?'

'Yes.'

'When?'

'After she was dead.'

'Why?'

'To make you think what you did: that she was a chronic drunk who lived in a tip and neglected herself. That's why they turned off the main supplies and took away all the food that she'd bought for the cats.'

'Oh, come on,' he growled impatiently. 'Everyone said she was a drunk, not just the Slaters.' He smacked the paper with the back of his hand. 'In any case, Derek was as thick as two short planks. He couldn't have followed through on a plan like that. He'd have given himself away the minute we started asking questions.'

'Not Derek, maybe, but Maureen certainly could. All she had to do was play on your prejudices.' I quoted his own words at him. 'You'd never believe a 'downtrodden slut' could outmaneuver you, and 'a miserable black who couldn't hold her drink' was bound to soil her own floor and piss on herself. And why would you question the kind of bottles you found in Annie's house when the mere fact of their existence confirmed everything Maureen wanted you to believe?'

'There was no reason to question them. No one told us she didn't drink vodka.'

I handed him another piece of paper.

'What's this?'

'A copy of Sharon Percy's statement. Your name's at the top as the interviewing officer. The first half deals with where she was during the evening-none of which is true as a matter of interest-the second half is her description of what Annie was like. Somewhere in the last paragraph it says: 'She used to get drunk on rum and start insulting everyone. She took swipes at the kids with the empty bottles. I kept reporting it but nothing was done.' '

Impatiently, he tore this page, too, into shreds and dropped it to the floor. 'You're clutching at straws,' he said. 'You can muddy the waters as much as you like, it doesn't alter the fact that there was no reason to question anyone's statement at the time ... and that includes your husband's. The pathologist's findings were unambiguous- Ann Butts died because she walked in front of a truck.'

'Which is what you told him to say.'

'You can't prove it. If Hanley's files are missing, there's nothing to show which of us said what first.'

I gave a small laugh. 'He didn't do you any favors by getting rid of them. At the moment, the only document supporting your accident theory is the one-page report Hanley submitted to the coroner, and that has so many mistakes it's a joke. He spelled Annie's name wrong, referred to bruising on her left arm instead of her right, and completely ignored the lividity in her thighs, which is very pronounced in the photographs.'

I was amazed to see him run a nervous tongue across his lips. 'I don't think that's right.'

'It is,' I assured him. 'Hanley was so incompetent by that time he was taking dictation from whichever police officer presented a body for inspection. I assume you got muddled over the arms because I told you she was lying left side uppermost with her back to the lamppost.'

He had to think about his answer. 'Not my responsibility. He had his job ... I had mine. Let him take the flak.'

I reached for my rucksack and zipped up the pockets. 'Reporters don't hound dead people,' I told him. 'Only the living. And there's more human interest in a racist policeman who refused to investigate a black woman's murder than a troubled pathologist who killed himself with drink because he couldn't stand the unnecessary mutilation of corpses. Radley's won't keep you on,' I went on dispassionately, 'not once you're plastered across the front of the newspapers. All your decent trade will vanish overnight to be supplanted by thugs from the National Front.'

Small beads of sweat dampened his forehead. 'Tell me what you came for,' he said, 'because we both know this has nothing to do with Annie.'

Was he right? I honestly didn't know anymore. 'It was two years before I learned to trust myself again,' I said slowly, 'and another two before I dared trust anyone else. I still have nightmares ... still run to the basin to wash myself ... still check the bolts on the door ... still jump out of my skin every rime I hear a sound I don't recognize.' I pushed back my chair and stood up, hooking my rucksack over my shoulder. 'I'd say this has everything to do with Annie. The only difference Between us is that she had the courage to stand and fight ... and I ran away.' I moved to the door. 'Which is why she's dead and I'm alive.'

Letter from Dr. Joseph Elias, psychiatrist

at the Queen Victoria Hospital, Hong Kong-dated 1999

QUEEN VICTORIA HOSPITAL

Hong Kong

Dept. of Psychiatry