Dark Vet

by CJ Hannon

  Kathy is holding a tissue under her eye. Melody can almost see the tear ducts. What a curious thing that words can trigger that anatomical response.

  ‘What is it?’ Lydia asks.

  ‘The practice is going to have to close.’

  Lydia rolls her eyes, shakes her head, but Kathy and Hugh stare at her.

  Hugh recovers first. ‘You mean until the police let us back in?’

  Melody tips the rest of her coffee down her throat. She cannot stand this, this place, this situation.

  ‘She’s firing us, Hugh,’ Lydia says.

  ‘Yes. Clearly. I’d rather not, but I have little choice. I’ll pay your notice period and you can all rely on me for a good reference. Even you, Lydia.’

  ‘I can’t believe this!’ Lydia says. ‘You’re not going to even talk about Martin?’

  She stands. ‘Martin? He should be the one telling you all this, not me.’

  ‘I don’t…’ Kathy shakes her head through new tears.

  ‘There is no alternative.’ Melody wraps her scarf around her neck, pulls on her gloves. ‘Good luck.’

  She escapes outside, gulping at the frosty air. She’d gotten through it. Unpleasant, but it was done. That was the main thing. Through the condensation in the glass, Hugh and Lydia each have a consoling arm on Kathy’s back, who is crying in juddering sobs.

  15

  Astrid

  Kathy Spellerman’s apartment block is set back from the pricier blocks closer to the seafront. The rail line is close enough to hear, but it’s a well painted, clean enough looking place. This is all procedural legwork, quite literally, as Spellerman’s apartment is on the fourth floor and there is no lift. The stairwell reminds her of school for some reason. Echoey and glass-fronted. She’s worked enough cases by now to have a handle of how important this step is. Get the key people down on the record and as time progresses, new evidence emerges. Stories change, people entangle themselves, contradicting their initial statements. It’s simple. Elegant. Part bureaucratic record, part trap.

  Spellerman greets them, barely looking at their warrant cards. Above average height, young, a little plain. Brunette with matching brown eyes that contain a mixture of shock and grief.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us on a Sunday.’

  Kathy shrugs. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Nice place. View of the cricket ground and everything,’ Collins says, completely misjudging the mood.

  Spellerman gives a weak smile. ‘You can hear the Elton John concerts from the balcony when he plays, no need to buy a ticket.’

  Astrid takes in the place. Clean, spacious, cheap furniture, and a hard-wearing carpet that suggests it’s a rental. Two bedrooms, probably got a housemate.

  They refuse a drink, and get right to it. Collins leads with the factual questions, establishing timings and movements up to the time she finished work.

  ‘I finished at six thirty with Hugh and Lydia. The last time I saw Martin was at the door to his office, waving us off and wishing us all a good weekend.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I went with Lydia for dinner at hers. Must have got back here at about eleven.’

  Van Doren takes over. ‘What was your relationship like with Martin?’

  ‘Great. Both he and Melody have been amazing to me. I started there on work experience when I left school, then they part-sponsored me through my studies to become a qualified vet nurse.’ Spellerman has tissues rolled up in balls in her sleeves, bulging there like little tumours.

  ‘So, it’s a good place to work then, everybody gets on well?’

  She shakes her head, letting out a snort. ‘Was, you mean. Melody had to let us go this morning. She’s shutting Kitteridge’s for good.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Collins says, and she wonders if he’s thinking the same as her; that it feels off. It’s too soon, wouldn’t she let the dust settle a bit? Or is this all about the money, stripping the business, selling the house? She’ll have Gardner look into it.

  Kathy plays with a necklace, shaking her head. ‘I always loved working there. We were a team. I know Lydia finds Melody a bit much sometimes, but she’s just very exacting.’

  ‘And how about Martin and Melody? Must have been hard living and working together all the time.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who might have held a grudge against Martin?’

  Again, she shakes her head, stares at her feet. ‘No. Martin was such a lovely‒’ She flaps a hand to fan herself. Tears burst out. ‘I just can’t believe he’s gone.’

  Tissues, tissues… she fishes in her pockets but Kathy has plucked one of the sleeve tumours out and dabs at her eyes.

  ‘I know this is hard, Ms Spellerman. You’re doing very well. Only a few more questions and we can leave you in peace.’

  She runs a wrist under her eye, nods.

  ‘There was a whisky bottle found in Martin’s room. Was he a big drinker?’

  ‘He liked his whisky.’

  ‘Do you know where it came from? Did he buy it?’

  ‘A client brought it in. One of Martin’s friend’s, actually. Austin Pemberton, had a golden Lab called Lucky who’s been coming in for years.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘It must have been close to Christmas. I remember I was in reception when Mr Pemberton brought it in. He was in a rush, dropped it at the reception desk wished us a merry Christmas.’

  ‘Did you ever handle the bottle at all?’

  ‘I looked at the label, just to see which one Martin liked. Not that it means much to me.’

  Astrid notes this, knowing that Spellerman’s prints will probably now match those found on the bottle.

  ‘Who took it to Martin’s office?’ Collins asks.

  I presume Martin did. Or Hugh. Melody even. I have no idea.’

  Astrid picks at a loose thread. ‘You said that this Mr Pemberton had a Labrador…’

  ‘Yes. It died, unfortunately, just after new year. Terrible thing.’

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘There was some misunderstanding I think, Martin couldn’t save it. I don’t really know. I was out with Melody at the time.’

  A possible line of inquiry? She looks at Charlie, who is making a note.

  ‘Mr Pemberton and Martin were good friends.’

  ‘Just trying to build a picture,’ Astrid says. ‘Last one. Did Martin have anything to do with snakes at all? Any interest you’re aware of?’

  ‘So, it’s true? What the papers are saying?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Collins says.

  ‘What sort of snake was it?’

  Collins gives Astrid a look; it’ll be common knowledge soon enough. She gives the go ahead.

  ‘Cobra.’

  Spellerman sits back in her chair, as if pushed. ‘A cobra?’

  Shock? Or something else? Later, in the car, Collins acknowledges it too.

  ‘That set my spider-senses tingling. Or my snake senses. Whatever. Tell you something else. I bet you don’t like that two of the staff alibi each other.’

  ‘Fine if it’s true.’

  ‘Let’s check her story against Lydia Gregorivic’s account.’

  16

  Melody

  Ten a.m. One hour to go.

  Melody takes the Defender through light morning traffic, stomach still tight from having to fire the staff. She focuses on the music.

  Absolute Eighties pulsates with beautifully dramatic synth, “Fade to Grey” by Visage. Insistent. While her foster brothers rolled from grunge to Britpop and then nu-metal, she was there, steadfast to the point of obsessiveness, reaching backwards into the eighties. Making mixtapes according to mood; The Cure, The Smiths, Duran Duran, Joy Division, The Stranglers for the darker times. The antidote: the joyful pop of Madonna.

  Moulsecoomb. She beeps twice. Ally’s place has seen better days. Rusted swing in the fron
t, and grass up to your knees.

  ‘Strimmer’s broken,’ Ally explains. ‘Awaiting repair in the shed, by me I expect, don’t think Tristan’s set foot in there since I had it put up.’ She clips her belt in. ‘I said to Tristan, we should tie a sheep up to the swing set, future mutton pie plus we get the grass cut in the meantime.’

  ‘Better to send Tristan out with his nose hair scissors.’

  Ally raises a brow. ‘How did you know he cuts his nose hair?’

  ‘Obvious. I always knew there must be some secret quality to him you loved.’

  ‘Gross. You be nice. He’s taken the girls out for the day so I could come.’

  Least he could do. She takes them back into Brighton, past the domed meringues of the Royal Pavilion, down to the sea front, past the Palace Pier and onto Madeira Drive, the mood changing as they near their destination.

  ‘So, what do you want me to do, exactly?’

  ‘Read the situation. I’ve never had to do something like this before.’

  ‘And I have? If you’ve got the full amount then there shouldn’t be any issues.’

  ‘This instalment, yes, but even this much was pretty close. I won’t be able to pay the next one. Not without selling the house.’

  ‘Holy shit, you’re going to have to sell it?’

  ‘Or not pay them… and tell the police and hope they can protect me somehow.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘We’ll work it out, Mel.’ Ally might have rested a hand on her shoulder perhaps, but doesn’t. Her presence is enough.

  The beach volleyball nets on the sand lie empty. Up ahead, the music venue where she’s to meet Pug.

  ‘Mel.’ Ally’s voice is steel.

  In the rear-view is a police patrol car, lights on, no siren. She indicates, and pulls over, hoping it will pass. It doesn’t.

  ‘They’ve stopped behind us. Stay calm,’ Melody says.

  ‘Where’s the money?’

  ‘They’re watching us.’ She winds down the window.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Kitteridge?’ the uniformed officer says.

  ‘Yes, is there a problem?’

  ‘I wonder if you could accompany us to the station to answer a few questions?’

  She stares ahead. There past rows of metal arches is the entrance to the Concorde 2. It’s so close. ‘Which station, officer? I can meet you there in, say, an hour?’

  ‘I’m afraid we need you to come in now, please.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Ally cranes her neck. ‘Is she under arrest?’

  The officer sighs, ‘This really would be a lot easier if you voluntarily accompanied us, madam.’

  ‘Voluntarily?’ The implication hits her.

  ‘Don’t go,’ Ally says and mutters, ‘They’ll probably back off.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘It makes the clock tick; they have to release you after like twenty-four hours or something. But if you go in, talk for a bit, and then they arrest you, they have even longer. Trust me.’

  ‘Madam, we are investigating a murder and require your assistance.’

  ‘No!’ Ally yells at them. ‘She’ll come later, we’re busy.’

  Melody feels warmth flush into her cheeks. ‘You do realise how that makes it look, Ally?’

  ‘Trust me, Melody. I watch a lot of cop shows, I know what I’m talking about.’

  The officer clears his throat, annoyed. ‘Please remove the keys from the ignition, madam.’

  ‘I’m not about to drive off! What’s wrong with you? Can everyone just calm down!’

  ‘I’m perfectly calm, madam. Please step out of the vehicle.’

  The money. Ally gives her a desperate look.

  Pass it to me.

  I can’t.

  She gets out. Handcuffs dangle by the officer’s side. Dull, scuffed metal. How many wrists had those two circles enclosed?

  ‘Last chance to come in voluntarily. Mrs Kitteridge?’

  She looks to Ally. In all things, in Ally she trusts.

  ‘Make them do it. It’ll start the clock.’

  Melody presents her wrists by way of answer, and the officer arrests her for the murder of her husband, and reads her rights.

  17

  Astrid

  Collins pulls down the busy residential street, leans to the window with half an eye on the road, lip-syncing the house numbers. Two breakfast croissants lie in the drink’s holder, the grease leaching through the paper packaging.

  There’s no parking on the street, but a car pulls away from the curb just in front of them, gifting Collins a space.

  ‘Jammy bastard,’ Astrid says.

  ‘Make your own luck.’ He pulls the handbrake and takes a bite of croissant.

  ‘Tell that to Martin Kitteridge.’

  It’s a neat, flint-stone townhouse. Seagulls caw at them, and Collins gives a potted history on the way to the house, dusting his hands of pastry flakes. ‘Lydia Gregorivic started at Kitteridge’s as a kennel assistant, then went on to help set up and run the pet salon. Been with the practice four and a half years. Divorced, two kids grown up now and moved away.’

  Lydia Gregorivic is above average height, hair thick with highlights outgrown by a few centimetres at the roots. Straightened hair, certainly pretty once, though not her type at all. A bit of a show-pony. Too much of everything; lipstick, fragrance and long shiny, fake nails. Early fifties, but trying to pull off late thirties.

  A team of yappy chihuahuas blur and hop around her ankles. ‘Don’t mind them, they just love their mummy don’t you my little squidgy-biddy…’ and she gathers two up under her arms, baby talking and giving one a kiss on the lips.

  She and Collins exchange a disgusted look. And “Mummy”? She’d never understood the need to humanise pets. She scuffs her feet on the mat, takes in the spray of photos in the hallway. Aha. A boy and a younger girl in various stages of growing up, testament to the now empty nest. Laughter, conversation, arguments, that richness of existence swapped involuntarily for the yips and barks of a tribe of ratty dogs.

  ‘Nice place you have here,’ Collins says, just to wind her, Astrid, up. They could walk into an abattoir and he’d say the same thing.

  Gregorivic sits. The legion of chihuahuas scramble up a well-situated stool, and burrow into her sides, scamper over cushions, so many cushions everywhere; zebra print, tiger print, and printed word cushions saying Home sweet Home and Love. This place would be Jenna’s idea of hell, decoratively speaking.

  Collins starts the questioning and Gregorivic corroborates what Kathy Spellerman told them about spending the evening with Kathy. Timings align. Neat. Maybe too neat. It’s hard to imagine Lydia and Kathy as friends, the age difference, the styles, but work brings all types together, Christ, she knows that.

  There’s a small desk in the corner with an old PC, a job site open. She can’t resist. ‘I heard that Mrs Kitteridge had to let you go.’

  Gregorivic glances at the computer. ‘Oh yes. Can you believe it? Not even had a bloody funeral and Melody’s firing us all like she’s Alan Sugar in The Apprentice! Real piece of work that one.’ Gregorivic strokes one of the little dogs. ‘Kathy will be alright, but me and Hugh, we’re a bit more… experienced.’

  ‘You have a strained relationship with Melody Kitteridge?’

  ‘Strained? Let’s call it as it is, shall we? I don’t like her. Never have.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s a robot. Barely laughs or cracks a smile. I’m just glad I rarely had to deal with her. I swear when she looks you straight in the eye, it’s like she’s trying to vaporise you. You know what I mean?’

  Van Doren narrows her eyes, ‘Any specific incidents you can recall?’

  ‘She’s just rude. You know when people say, oh So-and-so is the life and soul of a party? She’s the opposite of that.’

  ‘And her relationship with her hus
band?’

  ‘What he saw in her I’ll never understand.’

  Van Doren balls her fists up. What is wrong with this woman? Did she just live in the world of opinions and moral judgements? She changes tack.

  ‘Do you think it’s possible she could have had anything to do with Martin’s death?’

  Lydia Gregorivic stares at her. ‘The papers are saying it was a snake?’

  ‘You can’t try snakes for murder,’ Collins says, ‘but their handlers…’

  Lydia frowns. ‘I suppose something was up between them. He was drinking more recently, whether it was to do with her, I don’t know, but being married to her all these years must have taken its toll. Would be enough to drive anyone to the bottle I should think, but hand on heart, I can’t see it. I just can’t imagine Melody Kitteridge feeling enough emotion about anything, let alone be moved to do something like that.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what people can hide inside,’ Collins says.

  ‘If you’re asking me, I think you should look at Austin Pemberton.’

  ‘Martin’s friend?’ Astrid says, remembering that he had given Mr Kitteridge the Balvenie Whisky as a Christmas present. ‘Tell us why?’

  ‘There was a falling out between them, right before Martin died.’

  ‘When, exactly, Mrs Gregorivic?’ Collins asks, pen poised.

  ‘It would have had to have been last Monday.’

  ‘Can you describe what happened to us, please?’

  ‘Austin first came in with Lucky in the morning. He’s a beautiful Lab retriever, former prize winner, the whole deal. Austin thought he might have ingested a plastic bag, but isn’t sure. Martin couldn’t see anything on the X-ray, and asked Austin to bring Lucky in the next day if he hadn’t improved.

  ‘Then of course, Martin’s back in his treatment room, thinking his afternoon’s largely clear…’ Mrs Gregorivic mimes drinking.

  ‘He’d drink during the workday?’

  ‘That day he did.’ She strokes the underbelly of one of the dogs, like an unlikely Bond villain.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Lucky got worse. Austin came back at six, Lucky was unconscious and at death’s door. Austin demanded that Martin operate. And I mean demanded.’