by CJ Hannon
‘Keep me posted. Meantime, I need a background check for one Olaf Gudmundson. That’s Oscar, Lima, Alpha, Foxtrot…’ She spells out the rest of his name for Gardner and ends the call. Unprofessional to think it, but there’s something about Gardner she quite fancies. Jenna, aesthetically, is more beautiful, but Gardner... What was it? The intellect maybe – not that Jenna was stupid – far from it, but there was an incisiveness that she was drawn to, easier to grasp than Jenna’s nebulous talent.
She shakes the thought away, guilty that it had even crossed her mind, annoyed at herself even, given that her ride to Cuckmere Haven had brought some clarity.
‘You look troubled.’
She turns. Collins. A coffee in a reusable take-out cup in each fist. He takes them home and washes them up every evening – or so he claims.
‘I’m fine.’
‘How’s Jenna?’
She narrows her eyes, grudgingly impressed at his intuition. ‘Great. Filming in London, that BBC3 thing’s back for another season.’
‘That show is the shiznet.’ He hands her the cup. ‘Latte with full fat milk.’
‘You star. And the shiznet? And you wonder why you’re single?’ She climbs in.
‘Ouch,’ he says buckling up, but with good humour.
‘Sorry. I’ll turn off bitch mode now.’
‘No problemo. What’s next?’
‘I think a visit to see this Austin Pemberton is overdue.’
25
Melody
Melody starts the day at the practice; now officially released from crime scene status. The “For Lease” sign is already out front. They didn’t waste any time.
Hugh sits on the steps, wrapped up in a coat, scarf, hat and gloves.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I thought you could use some help. I am still technically in your employ.’
‘You’re right.’ She rips a bin liner from the roll. ‘I could have got Kathy and Lydia in too, but you’ll have to do.’
He smiles. ‘I missed you too.’
‘Right. Let’s get to it.’ She opens up and pauses in the lobby. This space, jammed with so much life, of bustling people, clients and their pets, is now bereft. It died with Martin.
She tugs down the police tape, stuffs the coil into the bottom of the rubbish bag.
In Martin’s room, the filing cabinet is empty and his computer gone. Even the sink plumbing has been removed by the police forensic teams. Powder covers every surface. A wall of certificates, framed newspaper clippings, and plaques. She hasn’t brought nearly enough boxes.
Hugh, a presence behind her.
‘I really am so dreadfully sorry, Melody.’
‘Perhaps you could find out about the equipment leases, Hugh. Find out what our obligations are. Then we’ll have to sort out what’s left.’
‘And what will we do with that?’
‘Sell it, I imagine. Feed it into the chomping maw of the debt collectors.’
Hugh removes his boxy glasses, rubs his nose. ‘I still can’t quite reconcile all this, Melody. Kitteridge’s was a roaring success.’
‘To all appearances. That, above all else, was Martin’s talent.’
‘I’ll get the kettle on.’ Hugh busies himself. The welcome note of his computer starting up, the clink of china in the kitchenette. For a moment it’s like old times, on the odd occasion they’d both been first in.
In the pharmaceutical cupboard, unsurprisingly, the police have taken the Midazolam, but there’s still a fair bit of stock: anaesthetics, antibiotics, worming tablets, syrups, syringes. She loads a selection into the carry bag, having no idea what she is in for with Richie Sheridan. Go broad. Cover the bases.
From the reception, the radio is tuned to Absolute Eighties. Hugh appears with a mug of steaming tea.
‘No milk, I’m afraid.’
She takes the mug off him.
Melody works efficiently and ruthlessly. There is little room for sentimentality. She learns, even now, new things about her husband. That he has an entire drawer stuffed to jam with thank you cards, some so old the colour is faded. She flicks through a few, names of pets and owners long forgotten. She bins the lot. Were there no depths to his vanity?
In another drawer a bunch of A4 photo frames and a Manila envelope of newspaper and magazine cut-outs from previous waiting room displays. Vet of the Year. Another about the time two cockatoos had escaped and were flying around Hove. Where “Local vet Martin Kitteridge was on hand to coax them down and return them safely to their owner.” She’d forgotten about that.
Back in time she goes, glancing quickly at the headlines and moving on. Funny that there are no images of her. It was always Martin, like a one man show. Like history had omitted her existence. She didn’t particularly mind; she wasn’t one for the spotlight.
As she turns to the next frame in the stack, her heart almost stops.
It’s a newspaper article from the Argus dated seven years ago, but it’s the picture that gets her.
Martin with a snake draped over his shoulders and curled up his arm, its head resting in his hand. A teenage Kathy, standing next to him holding up a smaller snake, a delighted smile on her face.
She grasps it between her hands. Reads the whole thing once, then a second time. A visit to sixth form college for Animal Awareness Day. The snakes were a royal python and a corn snake. She looks at the date. Kathy had been doing work experience for a good year by then. Was this some favour she’d asked Martin, to come into the college?
Melody crosses the lobby and enters her own room, more or less identical to Martin’s, except smaller and not as well lit. Her computer blinks into life and within a few moments she’s searching through her digital calendar, back-arrowing, but even as she reaches five years back the days are blank. She’s fairly sure she’d chucked her old paper diaries when she went digital. E-mail?
She constructs a search for the dates in question and yes, there, she has a confirmation for her attendance at a two-day conference in Birmingham.
She leans back on her office chair, taps out a beat with her fingers on the rest. Her first thought is that perhaps it was too an insignificant for Martin to mention… but if it meant nothing, why keep the newspaper cutting?
Bizarre. Yet for the police, this would prove nothing, some vague yesteryear connection between Martin and snakes, perhaps. Back when they were still the new vets on the block and were doing lots of community outreach and marketing.
Still, she folds it up and adds it to her swelling folder of research.
26
Melody
2010
She should have said something. Put up more of a fight. Conferences were decidedly not her thing. Yes, she’s a vet. But not this sort of vet.
But it’s Paris! The head vet had said, as if it weren’t a city with buildings and sewers like any other. Besides, you need to network. It takes practice.
This was a common theme in her appraisals with the head vet at the Ely practice. Her work with animals was extremely good, by all accounts. Networking was shorthand for something else. Her manner with humans, apparently. The soft skills.
Yes, she could be abrupt and direct, but it shouldn’t really matter if her veterinary skill was excellent. But matter it did. Melody needs his signature to attest to her competence, his name as a referee.
So here she stands.
To observe the smarmy smiles, handshakes and faux friendliness all masking the desperate hope of personal gain. And this was the template she should aspire to? How on earth does someone even begin a conversation with these people?
Her lanyard clunks against the coffee urn as she leans to fill her cup.
Naturally there are a lot of French. A few pockets of British. A small group of Saudis, white robed and head-dressed. A Hungarian contingent.
A woman in a business suit approaches.
Smile. Melody forces her face muscles to obey.
>
‘Are you okay?’ The woman asks, filling her cup. French accent.
Melody gives a quick nod. Tries to think. Offers her mug in a sort of a cheers.
‘We all need our coffee. You, are English, non?’
‘English. That’s correct.’ What would be appropriate? Light-heartedness? ‘Caffeine can help. In case the keynote is soporific.’
Thin smile. ‘Let’s hope not.’
Kindred spirit? ‘Do you think anyone actually enjoys these events?’
‘Excuse me?’
Melody glances down at the woman’s lanyard. Matches the name to the program of events. This is the keynote speaker.
‘If you’ll excuse me.’
Melody drains her coffee. Terrible and bitter. Why was this all so complicated?
She wanders over to the poster for various workshop sessions after the keynote. Varied. It’s as if someone wrote random ideas on paper and put them in a hat, then picked them out at random. Perhaps that is how these things are organised.
Veterinary Epidemiology
Camel Science
Veterinary Toxicology
Veterinary Surgery & Radiology
Aquaculture
Animal Cloning & Transgenic animals
Camel Science? Intriguing. If she’d done more equine work since qualifying, she might have been tempted. Surgery and Radiology is the obvious choice, but Toxicology, there could be a thing or two to learn there.
‘Moody? That’s not you, is it?’
It’s like someone has tipped a bucket of ice on her. Martin fills up his cup with coffee. Smiles. He’s in a checked shirt, brown corduroys, and loafers. Unruly coal black hair. Handsome.
‘What are you doing here?’
He shakes his lanyard. ‘Got in a little late.’ He nears, stands at arm’s length, knowing better than to kiss her or offer a hug.
‘Are you still working for that old codger in Ely?’
‘For now.’
‘How was the morning session?’ He takes a sip, winces.
‘As good as the coffee you’re drinking.’
‘I bet you hate this, don’t you?’
She doesn’t contradict him.
‘Mr Bloody Self-Development sent you, didn’t he?’
‘Nothing wrong with your powers of deduction, Martin.’ She stuffs her hands in her pockets, to stop herself wringing them raw.
He places his cup and saucer down on a nearby table. ‘You see, the thing is, Moody, I’ve read some research that suggests we shouldn’t work on rounding out our weaknesses. Instead, we should stretch our strengths. Accelerate them, become exceptional at a few things rather than being an average all-rounder.’
‘Interesting.’
‘In short, it’s a waste of time you being here, Moody.’
An announcement comes for them to return to the lecture hall. But Martin doesn’t move.
‘Do you want to get out of here? Sack this thing off? I know a great place for lunch.’
It’s scandalous. They couldn’t… surely?
‘We could call it… networking?’ Martin offers.
Martin dabs his lips with the napkin, then empties the last of the Beaujolais equally between their two glasses.
‘This is fate, Moody, me finding you here.’
She holds the glass to her chest.
‘Do you ever miss me?’ he asks.
She closes her eyes. Don’t admit it. ‘I have thought about you, occasionally.’ Damn.
‘We met too young,’ he says. ‘I was too immature and, for what it’s worth, I regret the way it all panned out.’
‘Good to hear.’
‘Time clarifies things. You’re not seeing anybody, are you?’
She shakes her head, takes a sip. It’s like her blood is electrified.
‘Good. That’s good. So, here’s what needs to happen. You leave Ely, and come with me to Brighton.’
‘Brighton?’
‘Your old stomping ground. I’m going to set up in Hove. Got the money from the bank of Mum and Dad.’
‘You want me to work for you?’
He moves his wine glass by the stem, as if moving a chess piece. ‘Not precisely. We’ll live together, run the practice together. If all is well in say, six months, we’ll get married, have children.’ He twizzles a finger in the air. ‘You know, the whole kit and caboodle. You could be Melody Kitteridge.’
It sounds so funny. So radical and impossible, yet… ‘And you decided this, when, exactly?’
‘Now. It just makes too much sense, Moody. I’ve never met anyone like you, you’re one of a kind and we dovetail just perfectly, wouldn’t you say? I mean, who else understands you like I do?’
‘Ally.’
‘OK, except Ally.’
‘Nobody.’
He drains his wine. Triumphant. ‘See? Tell me that doesn’t sound like the best fucking plan you’ve heard in your life?’
He holds up a hand to a passing waiter, asks for the bill in what sounds like perfectly accented French. Then he turns to her with a grin, cocks his head to the side.
‘Take your hair down.’
She reaches back, pulls away the hairband and lets her hair fall down onto her shoulders.
‘Still as straight as uncooked spaghetti.’
She touches it, smooths it.
‘My hotel is nearby,’ he whispers. ‘No kissing, I promise.’
27
Astrid
‘Pretty,’ Astrid says, winding around the country lanes, a smidge over the limit. They’re in Fulking, five miles north-west of Brighton in one of the grooves of the grassy Downs. They pass a picturesque pub.
‘Good ale in there,’ Collins says. ‘Nice beer garden.’
‘Is there an eatery or pub you’ve not been to?’ Astrid rounds a bend, then slows the car, squints. ‘Here we are.’
It’s a lush, green entrance overhung with ferns and a pulled back wooden gate. She swings the car in, crunching to a stop on pea gravel. Before them, a detached cottage straight out of a postcard.
‘Make a note of the reg. Get Gardner to run it through the ANPR for the night of the murder.’ Astrid nods to the red Volvo hatchback parked in front of them.
She steps out, brushes the creases from her suit. It’s freezing. The air bevel-edged The flower beds are neat, thoroughly weeded. Hanging baskets on the porch, tasteful touches.
‘Is he married?
‘Widowed.’
She knocks on the door, waits. Collins hangs back, covering the windows.
‘Anything?’
‘Nope. No smoke from the chimney.’
‘But his car’s here. What time is it?’
‘Eleven and change.’
‘Hmm.’
‘No. You don’t think?’
‘Well, it is next door. Country rules. Why don’t you run down there and ask while I have a little snoop around?’
While Collins walks to the pub, Astrid follows a path around the house. There’s a wooden side door, but a twist of the wrought iron handle lifts the latch. Lax security. These people forget how close they are to the city. The rear garden backs onto the Downs with a knee-high gate. Patches of frost claim the shadows, protected by the low sun fighting its way up in the sky. The path beyond meanders around scrubby bushes and up, presumably to the Devil’s Dyke.
Astrid presses her face to the window. A lounge; piano, hearth, comfy looking sofas and coffee table buried in magazines. Kitchen, study. On the far side of the house is a picketed area of fake grass, and it takes her a moment to realise what it is.
There’s a balance beam, miniature hurdles, slalom sticks and a foldable tunnel. In the corner is a large wooden kennel, exquisitely painted, with fleece blankets and a bed inside. A hand-painted sign hangs over the entrance: a horseshoe and the name Lucky.
‘You’re inviting fate with a name like that,’ she mutters, not quite believing the set-up.
&n
bsp; A hard, cold part of her thinks, how sad, how pathetic. Another invents a narrative of a childless couple who find an outlet for love in a dog named Lucky. In that light, what was the harm?
She’s back at the front by the time Collins returns, accompanied by a man in an oilskin jacket, wellington boots and a flat cap. The farmer without a farm.
‘Mr Pemberton, thanks for seeing us. I’m DI Van Doren.’
‘Detective.’ His handshake is firm, his cheeks flushed. ‘You caught me.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your man here, caught me having a glass of rosé with the morning paper and a bacon sandwich.’
Collins raises an eyebrow, amused.
‘Sounds like an interesting combo, I must try it sometime. Did DC Collins explain the purpose of our visit?’
‘Indeed, please, come in, come in.’
A few minutes later, they find themselves in the lounge. The sofa is comfy as it had looked from outside. On the mantelpiece is a row of tacky-looking dog trophies and colourful rosettes whose ribbons droop down like sad tails. Austin Pemberton puts the tray down: a teapot, some carefully arranged biscuits, and a jug of milk, a sugar bowl.
Astrid feels like Miss Marple.
‘Nice place you have here,’ Collins says.
‘Thank you, yes. Chrissie, my wife, discovered it. Late wife, I should say.’ He pours tea with careful concentration. A melancholy air settles around him. ‘It feels like everyone’s dying around me. First Chrissie, then Lucky, and now Martin. All in eighteen months.’
‘It must be a very hard time for you,’ Collins says, convincingly.
Astrid doesn’t want to waste time wandering down memory lane. ‘Mr Pemberton, we’ll need to ask you some difficult questions today.’
‘Help yourselves to milk and sugar, Detectives.’ He eases back with his cup. ‘Fire away.’
‘Thank you. Mr Pemberton, how would you describe your relationship with Martin Kitteridge?’
‘He was one of my closest friends. Met at Fitz in Cambridge. Shared a house with him until graduation.’