by CJ Hannon
‘Who?’
‘Opposite.’
Sure enough, as she looks up, their eyes meet.
The dessert arrives, white and wobbling. Splotches of red sauce dot the rim like blood spatter.
‘Did you enjoy the talk?’ he asks, spooning the desert into his mouth.
She prods it, doesn’t like the way the material responds. Pushes the plate away. ‘Her article was interesting. The talk was just the soundbites, I certainly didn’t learn anything new, except Dr Hutchence’s gender.’
‘Nice dinner though.’
‘Is it?’ she says, half an eye still on her desert, that somehow still seems to be oscillating.
‘You know, I think you might just be the most interesting thing in Cambridge.’
She sips her poorly mixed drink. ‘A thing, am I?’
He laughs at that, and a little jolt of pleasure surges through her.
‘You’re Melody, aren’t you?’
She gives the barest of nods, knows she is expected to ask his name in return, and as such, doesn’t.
‘It’s a pleasure, Melody.’ He threads a hand between the glasses and candles.
She stares at it, not intending to shake it. But it’s like her hand has its own brain, moving towards his.
And they touch. Actually touch.
It is warm.
Firm.
Safe.
‘I’m Martin. Martin Kitteridge.’
20
Astrid
In the incident room reserved for Windbourne, half the team are hard at work but Smithes sends them all out.
‘Clear the room. Take five.’
As soon as the door is closed, Smithes begins.
‘So much for an easy confession, Van Doren. With me and you running this, we can’t fuck up. A hasty arrest before we had the evidence in place? We haven’t established a motive or a connection to the snake!’
‘But we broke her alibi. And, in fairness, sir, you did ask for her to be brought in for questioning.’
‘I didn’t say arrest her though, did I?’
He hadn’t given clear instructions either way, but saying so won’t get her anywhere. ‘Nobody expected her to not co-operate voluntarily. I know it isn’t ideal, but we can always release Melody under caution and re-arrest later.’
‘Optics, Van Doren. From the outside it looks like procedural disorder. All the right notes, but in the wrong order. That’s not how I want to run things. We should count ourselves lucky she didn’t get a lawyer. I know you want a quick result here, we all do, but let’s do it the right way.’
She bites down her annoyance. ‘On the same page sir.’
‘We’ve got,’ he checks his watch, ‘a smidge over nineteen hours before we have to apply for an extension, release or charge her. Nothing like a bit of motivation, I suppose.’
Jenna is in the car park outside Sussex House. There’s a sandwich waiting for her on the passenger seat.
‘You know you can come inside.’ Astrid says.
‘Fuck that.’ Jenna leans over, they kiss. ‘It smells in there.’
‘Of what?’
‘Bureaucracy.’
‘Bitch,’ she says playfully, and takes a bite of her sandwich. ‘I’m so hungry.’
‘How’s the case going, big shot?’
‘It feels like we’re pinging from one screw-up to the next. Errors at the crime scene and now we’ve brought our prime suspect in for questioning when none of the legwork’s been done. The worst thing is I can’t tell if this is down to my inexperience, or if it’s just Bill giving me enough rope to hang myself with.’
‘Or plain bad luck?’
She tilts her head. ‘Could be. Whatever it is, it reflects badly on us.’
Jenna squeezes her shoulder. ‘Try not to sweat it, you’ve got great instincts. Always a few potholes in the road, people only remember if you get to the destination or not.’
‘Christ, you sound like Bill.’ She checks the digital clock on the dash, wondering how long she can take. ‘I’m just recalling that I’m not the only person in the universe. Are you up to London now? When will you be back?’
‘Shooting starts tonight. Maybe a week. Radical thought, but you could come up if you get free? Walk the set, even place that lovely arse of yours on one of those director’s chairs.’
‘They have them for real?’ What was the name of the damn programme? Some drama for BBC3, called back for a second season. If she goes up, she’ll have to watch an episode, refresh her memory and not look like some unsupportive ingrate. ‘You know I might just do that. Especially if we can get back on track.’
‘This is really bothering you, isn’t it?’
‘I hate feeling like I’m not doing a good job.’
‘Why don’t you go and see Ian?’
Astrid looks at the clock again. Now that isn’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.
Ian is repairing the pane on a greenhouse when she arrives.
‘Astrid! I wasn’t expecting to see you until Thursday.’
Thursday? Her mind races, locks onto the date. Of course. ‘You will, this one’s not a social call I’m afraid.’
‘No time for a tea then?’ His cheeks are red, capillaries attesting to the stress and hard living of his career.
‘Afraid not. After some advice actually.’
‘From me?’ Ian slots the pane in place with gloved hands, squints at the joins.
She plays up to it. ‘Yes, Ian, believe it or not there are plenty of us in the force who really value your opinion.’
‘You wouldn’t know it. I know what they think of me over there. All the talk of a fresh perspective, new leadership. The other side of the coin to that is a stale, used up has-been.’
‘Not how I see you.’ In the greenhouse, lines of pots brim with dark earth, though there is no sign of life. Is this how he fills his time since Laura died? Her heart aches suddenly for him. Career. Marriage. From everything to nothing at light speed.
Ian picks up a plastic bucket filled with the shards of the broken pane. ‘Bloody kid next door. Into cricket. So, out with it then. You mean to tell me it’s not a bloody perfect wonderland since Burrows elbowed his way in?’
She cocks a head to one side. ‘I mean it’s different.’
‘Different how?’
‘Speed is prized. Quick results.’
‘At the cost of quality.’
‘That’s kind of why I’m here. Bill Smithes is heading up a murder investigation with me as his deputy. Did you read about it? The vet that got bitten by the cobra?’
‘Big case, media-wise. I can’t believe Burrows trusted Smithes with it.’ He shakes his head dismissively. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I always said you had potential, Astrid. It’s no less than what you deserve, but Bill? That man’s made a career out of other people doing his work for him.’
‘He’s always been very generous with me.’
Ian snorts. ‘Simple enough. You make him look good.’
Had he always been so cynical? And didn’t any boss want good people under them?
‘I’m not doing a great job of that so far.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s early days but there’s been some procedural mistakes. Uniform let a potential suspect leave the crime scene to go home for a wash before forensics took any samples. Then we arrested this same suspect without enough evidence, which was just miscommunication. Smithes is worried it’s starting to look like we don’t know what we’re doing. Bill gave me a bit of a dressing-down for it.’
‘I see.’ He nods. ‘You’re Acting DI, and with Bill’s famous hands-off approach, I bet he’s gently manoeuvring you into the spotlight for any mistakes, am I right?’
‘I know you don’t like him, Ian, but I don’t think Bill would screw me over to protect himself… or am I being naive?’
‘Politics. You’re still learning.’
‘So, does the former
Chief Super have any advice for a fledgling Acting DI? How do I avoid becoming a scapegoat?’
He gives her a wry smile. ‘Would a hard truth do?’
‘Go.’
‘Sounds like a few procedural bumps so far, nothing major. But it shows us one thing: you make any real mistakes on this and Bill will pin them on you. Why? Because you’re an Acting DI. Easy for him to say he put you in too early, that you weren’t ready. I’m afraid in offering you a lane to promotion, Bill corralled you into a trap. You do well, he takes the credit. You screw it up and you’ll get the blame.’
‘So… the wisdom I’m taking away from this is, don’t fuck it up?’
He winks at her. ‘Sharp as a glass shard, you.’
No more fuck-ups. The same pearl of wisdom patrolman Tom Weston had given her at the Kitteridge Practice on Friday night.
Her phone rings. Collins.
‘Sorry. I have to–’
‘Go ahead.’ Ian watches her, hands on hips. He must miss this, the cut and thrust of an operation.
‘What is it, Collins?’
‘Guv, sorry, I know you’re grabbing lunch, but it’s the wife.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s demanding to speak to you, says she’s remembered something.’
Collins waits at the door of the interview room nearest Major Incident Room 2.
‘Smithes will want to interview too. Where is he?’
He points across the corridor. ‘In there, doing a press conference.’
Should she be jealous or glad that Smithes was handling all the press himself? She’d half-thought she might be sat at his elbow, but then again, the point of having a Deputy was to have an extra pair of hands to drive the investigation when the SIO was waylaid.
‘Bloody hell.’ She chews at her lip. After her chat with Ian, she’s second-guessing herself. Be decisive.
‘With me, Collins.’
They enter. Melody Kitteridge glances up. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Detective.’
‘For the record, you requested to see us with some fresh information, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ Melody nods. ‘Correct.’
‘Then please, go ahead.’
‘George Dapper is lying to you.’
Hardly fresh. ‘Yes, you said that before we terminated the last interview, Mrs Kitteridge. Also, that he was a…’ she consults her notes, ‘…a cantankerous old bastard who is trying to make a point.’
‘Yes, yes I know what I said.’
‘OK.’
‘I stand by those words. He just hates being told what to do, especially by a woman. I think I can prove that he’s lying.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s my car, the Defender. When we bought it, Martin insisted on getting a security tracker installed.’
Astrid straightens in her chair. Now this is interesting. ‘A GPS tracker?’
‘Yes, an anti-theft device. It was his idea, said that if we’re spending all that money on a car, we should at least protect it. I’m sure he has an app on his tablet or his phone that tracks it.’
‘Does it show historic data, Mrs Kitteridge?’
‘I don’t know for sure; I’ve never actually seen the app. Barely remembered he did it.’
‘These trackers all tend to record historic journeys, all stored on the cloud.’ Collins says.
Astrid taps her pen onto the table, once, twice. The vet’s confidence is interesting. If it’s proven to be true, they may have to admit to making an error in bringing her in; though she’d maintain the reasoning had been sound. After all, would such a clearly intelligent woman incriminate herself with her own statement? To leave her prints over the bottle? To carelessly dispose of evidence? It didn’t fit.
‘We’ll look into it right away.’
She hot foots it to the Windbourne Major Incident Room, Collins in tow. She assigns Horley the task of checking the GPS tracker and getting the data, ideally from Martin Kitteridge’s requisitioned tablet if possible.
‘And Gardner, prioritise the traffic cameras, run Mrs Kitteridge’s plates through the ANPR system on all possible routes between the vet practice and Dapper’s farm at these times.’ Another thing they should have done already. She’s got to get back on the front foot, that’s where she’s at her best, not playing catch-up.
‘On it.’ Gardner says.
‘Get a visual of the driver if you can.’
‘Always do.’
‘How long?’
‘Tight time parameters, the AI to do the heavy lifting, I’d expect to have something in the next hour, two tops.’
She turns to Collins, ‘Get Simmonds or Critchlow back over to Dapper's. I want them to press him on the statement.’
‘I could go if you want?’
‘No. I need you here to help me go through the things we got from the house. We need to start again, do this properly.’ She drums her fingers on the whiteboard.
‘You really think her tip’s good?’
‘You saw how confident she was, Collins. Why make something like that up? She’d know that it wouldn’t take us long to check it. Either way, there’s no harm getting a jump on the investigation while we confirm it, have something to show Smithes.’
‘I’ll tell them now.’
‘Collins?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If it turns out George Dapper gave a false statement, then let’s throw the book at the bastard. Maximum fine. I won’t have this investigation interfered with.’
21
Melody
Melody walks around the cell. What’s taking them so long? She imagines a rectangle of Martin appearing through the hatch. His brown eyes, or his bright smile.
‘Oh. Moody,’ he’d chuckle. ‘Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into a right old pickle. Come on, let’s get you out of here.’
She sits on the bed, puts her head in her hands. Footsteps. The clanging of metal and the door swings open.
A uniform makes way for detective Van Doren.
She stands. ‘Am I free to go?’
‘The tracker corresponds to the timings you gave us, and we have it corroborated by CCTV. On behalf of Sussex po-’
‘Idiots. Come on then, move.’
‘Follow me, please, Mrs Kitteridge.’
The detective leads her to the desk of the corpulent custody officer. Melody signs various papers and her effects are returned in plastic ziplock bags.
Van Doren signs in loopy cursive. ‘I’ll drop you home.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll take a cab.’
‘I get it. You’re pissed off. I would be too. But you weren’t brought in for nothing.’
‘I’m a doctor, detective. I went to Cambridge. I won’t spell it out for you.’
‘Point taken, Mrs Kitteridge. But rest assured I’m no fool either. Top of my class in criminology, youngest female to be made a detective sergeant in the history of Sussex Police.’
‘A man would say we’re comparing our reproductive organs right now, Detective.’
‘We could really do with a saying for that, couldn’t we? Comparing vaginas, well… it just doesn’t work. I mean who wants the biggest one of the those?’
She thinks. ‘Measuring legs.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s what dominant female Portiid spiders do, they measure the length of one another’s front legs to determine size and therefore primacy. Nature has an answer to most things.’
‘Measuring legs, classy, I like that. Well done the spiders. So?’ Car keys dangle from her fingers. ‘Why don’t I spare you from breaking into that five grand?’
The detective switches from Kiss FM to the local Radio Reverb. It’s on low. Just the staccato rhythm of the DJ’s voice, something next to silence. Free she might be, but the passenger seat is a new kind of interview chair. They are barely past the Hollingbury Asda when Van Doren begins.
‘We interviewed Lydia Gregori
vic yesterday. She said you’re closing the practice?’
‘That’s right.’ Melody reads a message from Ally saying she’d dropped the car at home, fed the cat. Apologising too that she had to get to work, then get the kids but she’d be up to the station later to see if she could be of any help.
Did she not realise that her phone would be confiscated at the station?
I’m out. Talk later.
‘It must be hard, closing down something you’ve spent all those years building up,’ Van Doren tries again. Persistent at least, she’ll give her that.
‘It’s good that you support local radio. I like Absolute Eighties. It’s just about all I listen to.’
Van Doren smiles. ‘You really don’t want to talk about the business, do you?’
‘Martin ran the finances, Detective, but not as well as anybody thought.’
Van Doren hums, interested, and indicates, waits for a break in the traffic and bursts through the gap. ‘And you know, that five grand… I’m just naturally curious. What was that for?’
It’s like she’s having her thoughts sniffed out of her. By answer she turns the volume up on the radio. ‘If it’s on we should at least be able to hear it.’
At one point the detective’s phone goes, cutting the radio and bluetoothing automatically onto speaker.
‘Van Doren.’
‘It’s me,’ a man’s voice she recognises as DCI Smithes who had interviewed her. ‘Listen–’
‘Sir, I have Melody Kitteridge in the car with me on speaker,’ she says quickly, darting a quick apologetic look at her. ‘I’m dropping her back after release.’
There’s a pause. ‘OK. Please pass on my apologies for inconveniencing her. Come and see me when you get back to Sussex House.’ The line goes dead.
‘Not in trouble, I hope?’
‘Don’t you worry about me.’ Van Doren’s jaw is set into a bite.
Medina Villas. Van Doren gets out the car.
‘There’s really no need to chaperone me to my door, Detective, I won’t be inviting you in for a nightcap.’
But the detective stares at the house and puts her phone to her ear.