by CJ Hannon
Dark Vet
CJ Hannon
Dark Vet
Copyright © CJ Hannon 2021
The right of CJ Hannon to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Ebook Version
ISBN 978-1-9162737-4-0
All rights reserved.
1
Melody
The Defender pitches, rises. Outside: real bonnet-denting, headlight-blurring rain. Inside: “Red Red Wine” by UB40 plays on the digital radio, calm. Dapper’s farm is irksome to find at the best of times. There, the turning. She takes it and bounces along the single-track road, running along the fold between two South Down hillocks.
Farm lights draw outlines: the corrugated sheeting of the hay barn roof, the boxy tractor, the broad farmhouse. It’s as if the house, barns, sheds and outbuildings were built on separate slopes and slid down, gathering on this sternum of flat land. The Defender’s already in 4 x 4 mode, and even then, doesn’t so much as stop as slide to a halt in the mud. Dapper should get it gravelled, though he never will.
Despite the mud, the rain, the job at hand, it’s a good reason to get away from the practice. Out of his orbit.
The light is brightest from the cow shed. Doors yawn open. A figure in silhouette waves. Melody splashes through the puddles, and ducks into the shed.
Dapper motions to one of the cows. ‘Took your time. She’s over there.’
There’s a little stab of defiant pride that Dapper still calls on her. Kitteridge’s is an urban practice in affluent Hove, tending, by and large, to over-preened domestic pets. Large animal work forms just ten, maybe fifteen, per cent of their business. Typically, it’s the domain of the checked-shirt, bearded-man vet, like Martin. Except Martin prefers the glamour and sterility of the operating theatre, pumping hands with owners in the doggie salon, and upselling luxury pet food.
Here, in the mud with the big beasts. This is her domain.
Farmers don’t normally expect a woman, though she must be doing something right to be called back during calving and lambing year after year. Though it’s bittersweet. Instead of seeing animals, Dapper sees assets.
This is her role: to protect his assets by staying the hand of death.
Her own hand is now inside the cow in question. The animal is jittery. In pain. Immediately, by smell alone, she knows the news will be bad.
The calf comes out backwards, dead and stinking, already part rotten. Dapper covers his nose with his arm.
Melody has a strong constitution, but doesn’t begrudge his reaction; death is an odour that goes bone-deep. Dapper calls to someone to drive the scoop over.
She soothes the mother, stroking her snout.
‘It’s over now.’
Dapper, handkerchief held over his nose, inspects the calf with a stick. ‘Heifer too. Just my bloody luck.’
After tending to the mother, she inspects the four newborns farther down the shed. Three of them are coughing.
‘Are they eating yet?’
‘Not properly. This one’s off food completely.’
Melody takes the temperature of the worst-looking one, nods. It’s thirty-nine and a half Celsius. Too high. She scrutinises the barn.
‘George, we spoke about this. You need to improve the ventilation in here, pneumonia thrives in stuffy places. It’s not about the cold.’
‘And I told you last time, don’t need you telling me how to run my bloody farm!’
‘It’s a false economy. Surely you–’
‘Just give them something for it, that’s what I pay you for, isn’t it? And you’re hardly cheap.’
‘Unlike yourself.’
Dapper mutters something, arms crossed while she administers drugs to bring down the calves’ temperatures, and gives them antibiotics. ‘Don’t be surprised if you lose one or two, even with the medication.’
‘What’s the point in paying you for all this then, woman?’
‘There’s nobody to blame but yourself.’
Dapper grunts. ‘Are you finished?’
‘I’m serious, George. It’ll cost you a lot more lost stock in the long run. Get the ventilation sorted or find yourself another vet.’
Dapper waves her away, muttering expletives. He strides out into the rain, yells something to the farmhand driving the scoop. The calf leg hangs over the yellow lip, bouncing with each juddering movement.
Couldn’t have been helped, that one.
Melody swings open the boot of her Defender. There are two bins in her boot; one for spent disposals, the other for clothes to be washed. The blend of blood, mud, dead calf and spent placental juices has infused her clothes, her hair, her skin. There’s a change of clothes in the back, though she doesn’t fancy getting changed in the icy wet rain or wrestling her clothes in the confines of her car. She strips off her gloves, cleans up. She’s quick. Efficient.
A bath, hot to burn, with a splash of Dettol. She’d kill for it right now, but it’ll have to wait.
She covers the driver’s seat in a plastic covering. Climbs in. Rings home. No answer. Then the practice. No answer either.
Next, she tries Hugh, the receptionist, on his mobile. Background noise, men talking. A pub or wine bar.
‘Hugh. I’m just finished at Dapper’s.’
‘I’ve finished for the day, Melody. What is it?’
‘I’ll give you the rundown tomorrow. Listen, was Martin still there when you left?’
‘I think so.’ A pause. ‘Look. Melody… it’s none of my business, but Martin…’
Melody turns on the engine. ‘You’re right, Hugh. It is none of your business.’ She hangs up. Who does he think he is?
Half an hour later, Melody parks up outside the converted Edwardian townhouse. It’s a cosy-bricked, handsome property with bay windows, high ceilings and a chessboard path leading to the entrance. An expensive brass sign above the door reads: The Kitteridge Veterinary Practice.
The entire ground floor is theirs, plus the little garden at the back. It is decorated sumptuously throughout in a two-tone minty Arsenic by Farrow & Ball, with a creamy Pointing also by Farrow & Ball; not mixing brands within a room keeps it colour-loyal and avoids texture clash. The property costs an absolute fortune in rent but “one must appear to be a success in order to be a success”. A Martin axiom if ever there was one.
The house is lifeless. The only light on is at the front bay window – Martin’s room – and the blinds are pulled down, like drooping eyelids.
She stinks. That bath would be wonderful, but she’s here now. She runs a hand over her triceps on her left side, feeling a dull ache under her layers. The cold makes it worse. She dashes between the car and the entrance, splashing through puddles, and lets herself in.
Inside, an eerie quiet. Martin hasn’t been in a suitable frame of mind to conduct surgery so there are no overnighters scrambling around in their kennels or cages. Reception is dark, brooding. A slanted rectangle of light bleeds from under Martin’s door.
Knocks. ‘You in there?’
She waits. Knocks again, louder.
‘Martin? It’s me.’ She tries the handle. It’s locked, but she has a key and lets herself in.
He’s lying on the floor, passed out. It’s a mess, papers everywhere, his Vet of the Year trophy under the desk.
She sighs, puts the trophy back on the shelf, picks up the papers and stacks them neatly on his desk next to the half-drunk bottle of Balvenie whisky. The bottle she takes to the sink and upends it. The amber liquid glugs and disappears down the thirsty plughole.
She prods Martin with her foot.
‘Martin. It’s me. Anybody awake in there?’ She shakes him again, hard
er this time. Still, he doesn’t stir.
‘Martin?’ She bends down, and rests a finger on his neck.
The flesh isn’t cold. It’s warm.
She waits. Nothing.
Then tries the wrist.
2
Astrid
Blue and white lights reflect in the pavement puddles. Behind a border of police tape, a few members of the public watch and gossip.
‘Excuse me.’ Acting Detective Inspector Astrid Van Doren ducks under the tape and holds it up for Detective Constable Collins.
Attending is an officer she doesn’t recognise – a rookie? – and Tom Weston, a dyed in the wool patrolman she’d worked with six years or so ago. The rookie is scene guard, patrolling the tape, hopefully taking notes of the faces, getting names.
‘Tom,’ she says, unwrapping a white Tylex protective suit from its packaging.
‘Astrid. Charlie.’
‘Bloody hell, Tom. It’s Baltic out here tonight,’ Collins says, as if Weston controlled the weather.
Astrid zips up to her throat. ‘What have we got then, Tom?’
‘One fatality. Male. Martin Kitteridge, co-owner of this practice with his wife, Melody, also a vet. Wife found the body. Called it in just after half past eight.’
‘Let’s take a look at the body.’
‘Through here, sarge. Or is it DI now? Did I hear that right?’
‘Just Acting. Smithes is acting up, left a bubble behind him.’
‘Good for you, Astrid. No ballsing it up from here on out then, eh?’
‘With such political savvy, I’m surprised you’re not Chief Constable now, Tom.’ She snaps on latex gloves and clean shoe coveralls.
Inside it’s classy, clean. The reception is frosted glass, the computer an iMac. God, she’d always wanted one of those. Rooms break off from the heart of the lobby; a pet salon, treatment rooms. The first room on the left has a band of tape across it.
Astrid ducks under into a vinyl-floored room split in the middle with a curtain. Gleaming metal table. Large digital scales. A few cupboards, a sink area. Beyond the curtain, an office or consultation area. It’s here where the body lies.
Astrid approaches, bracing herself.
Male, late thirties, early forties. Stocky build, beard with dark curly hair flecked with grey. A lumberjack forced into dark blue vet scrubs.
The biggest surprise? There’s no shock; it helps that there’s no blood. It helps too that this is her fourteenth dead body. It was true what the old hats told you: it does get easier. Repetition hardens the nerves, desensitises. Still, she registers a little bump in her heart rate, as if aware of her own vitality in the presence of the other.
Collins takes in the various certificates and plaques on the wall. ‘Cambridge University. Gold Pet Care Insurance’s Vet of the Year last year.’
How does it feel, to die facing your accomplishments? Proud? Or ridiculous?
Astrid crouches by the body. The vet’s eyes are a deep woody brown, lifeless and unseeing. She swallows to get some moisture in her dry throat. ‘There’s still a little colour in his cheeks. A fresh one. No blood visible on the floor.’
Collins is still not looking at the body. Spooked? She casts an eye over the desk. ‘Another bloody iMac. Do you think we could conveniently lose it in evidence?’
She’s trying to get Collins’ head in the game. The gallows humour is a way to cope, to try and neuter the shock, and focus the mind.
‘Big drinker.’ Collins points to an empty bottle of Balvenie Whisky. ‘No spent blister packs in the rubbish bin. No note on the table. Alcohol poisoning, heart attack...see what the coroner says.’
Astrid scans from the top of the vet’s head, down his scrubs. A pen in his breast pocket, no note there either. Probably not a suicide, but you never knew. A bulge in his right pocket. A set of keys. Down the trouser leg and her breath hitches in her chest.
‘Collins.’
‘What?’ He squats down beside her.
‘There, look at those spots at the bottom of the trouser leg by the right ankle.’ The dark blue scrubs hid the stain well. ‘Blood?’
Astrid lifts the trouser leg up by the hem very gently with a biro, sliding it higher.
‘Jesus H Christ,’ Collins says. ‘What are those… bites?’
Astrid counts six puncture wounds. Little pyramids, each with a red halo of inflammation.
‘Slowly, very slowly, back out of the room.’ She shuffles backwards, watchful for movement.
Collins clips the door shut; his eyes are like pinpricks.
‘What did those bites look like to you?’
‘Fang bites. A spider or snake?’
‘I’m no expert but the size, the spacing…. my bet would be a snake.’
‘We are in a vet’s, maybe they had one on site and it got loose?’ Collins offers.
‘It could still be in there, or the building for that matter.’ She thinks through what to do next. ‘Let’s split up, make sure all doors, windows, obvious escape routes are blocked off.’
‘And if I see the snake?’
‘Cuff it and read its rights? Just call out, okay? Let’s move.’
Astrid enters a small sterile operating theatre, no windows, an air vent with a grille too narrow for even a mouse to squeeze through, but plenty of hiding places. Next, a cupboard full of cleaning materials.
The next room is a cloakroom. A hanging shadow gives her a start. A scarf. Just a scarf. She presses a palm to her heart. Feels the thump thump thump even through her forensic suit. The last room is a small bathroom, reassuringly white and well lit. She lowers the toilet lid. A few summers ago, she’d attended a flat in Kemptown where a python had appeared in the bathroom of an old lady; it had escaped from the local pet shop and somehow travelled through the plumbing.
They reconvene outside. She brings Weston up to speed.
‘First things first, we need an RSPCA snake specialist to do a sweep and make sure the scene’s safe. Nobody goes in until it’s all clear, not the paramedic to certify the death, not the forensics teams, nobody.’
‘Yes, guv,’ Weston says.
‘I’ll call the Coroner, request a Home Office forensic pathologist to do an examination in situ. Collins, get a Crime Scene Manager in here, and the CSIs on standby.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Collins steps away to call the control room with her wish list.
‘Weston, have you talked to the neighbours yet?’
‘Only tried the two flats above the practice. One is empty, the other has an elderly lady. TV blaring out, she didn’t hear or see anything.’
‘Rustle up support if you need to, door knock within half a kilometre, and urge everyone to shut all windows and doors as a precaution. No mention of the snake please.’ Astrid runs her hand under her hair, feeling the bristles of her undercut. The wife. She would know about any snake kept on the premises. Two patrol cars. ‘Which car is the wife in, Tom?’
Weston clears his throat. ‘Oh… her friend came. Drove her home in her car.’ It’s like he reads the displeasure on her face because he quickly adds, ‘I took a statement, took a fingerprint with the mobile scanner. I’ve got her clothing in the forensic bag. She had a change of clothes with her, you see.’
‘Christ! You let her go?’
‘You’d have done the same.’
‘No, Tom. I wouldn’t have.’
‘The poor thing absolutely reeked! She’d just lost her husband and come straight from delivering a calf over at Dapper’s farm and was covered in… you know, blood and…. stuff.’
‘Hold on, hold on, back up. Have I got this right? You let a key witness at an unexplained death, who is covered in blood, go home to wash it off before the lead detective or forensics got here?’
Tom’s mouth opens and closes again.
‘Tom!’
‘There was no blood on the body, the floor! She stank!’
‘We don’t know what h
appened. That’s the point of sending bloody detectives to the scene! When did she go? How long?’
Tom, ashen-faced, says: ‘A half hour. Look, I still don’t th–’
‘Just don’t,’ she warns him. She gestures to Collins and stabs a finger at their car.
‘Sorry, what Ma’am?’ He holds the phone to his chest.
‘We need to blue light it to the wife’s house. Now.’
3
Melody
Hastings 1990
There is a boy here already.
He has a name but names aren’t worth much when you don’t stay in places long, when you don’t need to say them aloud. He tells her he has been here for over a year, he’s older than her. He concentrates, tongue poking out the edge of his mouth. A quick hand could dart and catch it, like a frog catching a fly.
‘You’ll be my sister, I guess. I’d prefer a brother.’ He is building something, a tower. ‘My mum’s a druggie and my dad’s in prison. What about you?’
A druggie? What is that? It sounds like “doggie”, but of course it can’t be that. Prison though, she’s knows what that is. Melody reaches for a piece of Lego and adds it to the building.
‘That doesn’t go there.’ He snatches it away. ‘It goes over here, see?’
She hugs her knees to her chest and watches, wary of making another mistake.
The lady is old. A hobbler. People drop food off for her in little crates. Vegetables mostly, but one day a skipping rope with blue handles arrives.
‘For you,’ the lady says.
She takes it, bunches the rope in her hand. All hers?
‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’
In the yard, she holds the handles behind her shoulders and launches the rope, jumping forward with it. It catches on her shins with a whip. She tries again, and again. There’s a rap on the window. The lady opens it a crack.
‘Start with the rope resting on your heels, hands down by your sides.’
Melody does. Loops the rope in an arc over her head, and jumps awkwardly through once, twice, three times, then it catches.