Dark Vet

by CJ Hannon

  ‘Forgive me for asking this, but you’re a little older than Martin?’

  ‘I was a mature student. I’m only, what, eight years older than him? Age didn’t figure. We just got on famously.’

  ‘Always?’

  He takes a sip, thinks. ‘Friends have their spats, but I suspect you’re referring to something more recent.’

  Astrid inclines her head. ‘We’ll get to that. First, could you walk us through your movements on Friday, the tenth of January?’

  ‘The day he died?’ He looks up at the ceiling, ‘I can’t really remember anything precise. I would have worked in my study – wealth management –’ he adds before she can ask. ‘I went for the usual walk up on the Downs around lunchtime. Funny, I’ve kept the routine I used to do with Lucky. Take the ghost dog for a walk, as it were. I stop, look around, expecting him to burst out of the bushes. The other day I was calling him, and a kind walker stopped and asked if I needed help searching for him. I didn’t have the heart to admit Lucky is dead.’

  Astrid tries, and fails, to close her heart to this sad man. ‘Roughly what time do you return from these walks?’

  ‘I would have been back by one. Spot of lunch. Then I was in for the rest of the day. In the evening I would have watched television.’

  ‘What did you watch?’ Collins asks.

  ‘The news. Newsnight. Bit of Bloomberg in the gaps, I should imagine. The days tend to blend into each other.’

  ‘And there’s nobody who could confirm this? Any phone calls you remember, anything?’

  He holds his hands up, ‘No. If I’d have known I needed an alibi I would have gone to the pub, Detective. Sorry, bad joke.’

  ‘I need to ask you about your argument with Martin Kitteridge the Monday before he died.’

  His face darkens. ‘What a way to leave things between us.’ He sighs. ‘A most unfortunate business. It began with Lucky on our normal walk. He was off in the bushes; I heard some rustling of what sounded like a plastic bag. You know what people are like leaving rubbish about. Thought nothing of it. But he didn’t touch his dinner, and the next day it was like he’d lost his light. I took him into Martin, he took X-rays, but couldn’t see anything. He gave me a watching brief. To cut a long story short, Martin had to operate on Lucky, emergency surgery. But the fool was soused and made a hash of it.’

  ‘And how did you react?’

  ‘I might have said some regrettable things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I believe I said that he would pay for it. Or words to that effect.’

  ‘And what did you mean by that, Mr Pemberton?’

  ‘I meant that he’d pay for it. Literally. I was going to sue him and get him, whatever it is, struck-off, lose his licence, whatever.’

  ‘And did you start proceedings?’

  ‘No… I said it in the heat of the moment. Losing Lucky was a terrible blow. I won’t deny how deeply I felt betrayed by Martin. Drunk and irresponsible though he was, he was still trying to save Lucky. The litterbugs are as much to blame as Martin, and I couldn’t face losing a friend on top of Lucky. I’d planned to patch things up.’

  ‘We’ve had reports that Martin had started drinking more heavily. Do you know why?’ Collins asks.

  Astrid sips her coffee, reading his reaction.

  ‘Unhappy sod. I couldn’t fathom it, to be quite frank. Beautiful house, intelligent wife, a thriving business and me losing Chrissie and Lucky, you would have thought I’d be the unhappier of the two. Perhaps I am. Martin wouldn’t talk about it, he had to project this image of success. If he admits his unhappiness, then the illusion wobbles.’

  ‘And the whisky? The bottle of Balvenie, can you confirm that you gave him that as a Christmas gift?’

  His brow furrows. ‘I get him a single malt every year. It’s tradition. It was before all this business with Lucky. What of it?’

  ‘Just trying to establish the provenance of the items found at the scene of Mr Kitteridge’s death.’

  They wrap up the interview and Mr Pemberton shows them to the door.

  A question flies into her head. ‘One last thing. As a wealth manager, did you ever manage anything of Martin’s?’

  ‘Confidential…’ he begins, but then rubs his chin. ‘Though he’s no longer with us, I believe I am allowed to say that he was once a client of mine.’

  ‘Until when?’

  ‘Six months ago.’

  ‘He withdrew funds? Did he give a reason?’

  ‘He didn’t need to. It was his. He could do what he liked with it.’

  She hands him a card. ‘Thanks for your assistance, Mr Pemberton, we may be in touch to follow up. If anything occurs to you…’ She nods to the card.

  ‘Best of luck, Detective. I pray for a speedy conclusion.’

  28

  Melody

  After a quick lunch, Melody returns home to find a delivery man skipping down her steps with a box under his arm.

  ‘Wait, I’m here, I’m here!’ she calls from her window.

  ‘Just in time! Sign here please, madam.’

  In the lounge, the tape parts effortlessly beneath the blade of her box cutter.

  Gleaming tins of paint. Little Greene this time. Two of a muted yellow Chamois, two of a faded blue Grey Stone, and the rest a simple Loft White. There is no question of “touching up” or painting a single wall in the lounge. The shades are never quite the same, the freshness of the paint won’t match the rest of the walls. The current incarnation of the lounge is about ten months old, all Farrow & Ball. The switch back to Little Greene means she must do the ceiling again too, to keep the room paint-loyal. It is one of her rules.

  She scrubbed the walls late into the night and the blood stain is now just a pinkish shadow. A whisper of violence. She readies her roller, letting the paint soak into its thirsty fibres. A roll on the tray to take off the excess and avoid drips. There’s a light thud as it kisses the wall, then she pulls it across the wall in a stripe, the Chamois paint disappears the last molecules of Cleopatra, to the human eye at least.

  Later, in coveralls, she sits on an old sheet by the window, and pull on her Marlboro Light. A rare treat. There’s plenty left to do, no need to cram it all into a single day. She draws in deep and empties her lungs into the gap of the cracked window.

  She sees them. Her in-laws. Coming up the road. Howard and bitch-face Susan, with someone in a suit.

  ‘What the…?’ She stubs the cigarette out on a saucer. Cleopatra’s wall is now a clean block of summery yellow. No hint of blood to explain.

  There’s a clatter of keys in the lock, conversation, the scuffing of feet. She doesn’t know what to do with herself so she stands in her coveralls waiting to be discovered.

  ‘Beautiful flooring, is that solid oak or wood laminate?’ A male voice says.

  And then they are all face to face.

  ‘Melody?’ Susan says. ‘I… didn’t think you’d be in.’

  Howard appears behind her, holds up a palm in greeting with an awkward grimace. It occurs to her how strange this is, that they haven’t spoken since Martin’s death.

  ‘This is Mrs Kitteridge?’ The suit says. ‘Truly sorry for your loss.’

  ‘You’re redecorating again?’ Susan says with a pinched expression. ‘And that colour? Isn’t that a cheery colour, doesn’t that look like a cheery colour to you, Howard? What could you possibly be feeling so happy about, Melody?’

  No. Not so strange that they hadn’t spoken. She points at the suit. ‘Who’s this? And what are you all doing in my house?’

  He lunges forward, offering a hand, ‘Paul, from Cubitt’s. The estate agency.’

  Susan waves him off without meeting his eye. ‘Go and have a look around, Paul, begin your appraisal.’

  Bitch-face scowls, she’s wearing so much make-up she looks like a gaudy, scrunched-up flyer.

  ‘You’re not smoking, are you? It stinks in here.’
>
  ‘Only when I decorate. Not that it’s any of your business. Now, why is there an estate agent here?’

  Susan looks at Howard. ‘Little dove doesn’t know.’

  ‘Susan.’ A low, resigned warning from Howard.

  ‘Doesn’t know what?’

  ‘He cut you from the will, dear. It must have been a month before he died. Told us all about it.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘Whatever you think you’re getting, you can forget it. He’s kept it all in the family, left it all to us and Andrea.’

  Them? And Martin’s sister? Could that really be true? ‘Didn’t Andrea run away to the other side of the world to be rid of you? Good luck with that.’ Inside she seethes. Martin had seen his sister… when? At the wedding. And that’s been about it for the last decade. And he cut her in, and cut her, his wife, out? Complete bastard.

  ‘I need a coffee.’

  ‘A tea would be lovely if you’re making, thanks,’ Howard says. ‘I might use the little boy’s room.’

  Melody escapes to the kitchen to buy some space, to compute what she’s just heard but Bitch-face follows her, her perfume drifting in with her like a marsh gas. Melody flips on the kettle and the instant roar of it tells her there’s no water in it. She tops it up with the Brita filter jug, then rests against the back of the full-stave oak worktop. Bitch-face is watching her, arms folded, using the island as a barrier. Kitchen knives gleam in a line on the magnet bar, just asking, begging, to be thrown.

  They stare at one another. Susan, a smug expression on her face appraising the space, the wooden worktops, the Mudejar tiling and tasteful lighting, the Calke Green paintwork, as a hard-nosed valuer might.

  ‘We’ll get a lot for this place.’

  Bitch! Someone yells at the back of her mind, but she smiles. ‘You need my agreement to do anything. I still own half of it.’

  ‘On that, Howard and I are easy. We could be your landlords and you could pay us rent, or maybe you’d like to buy us out?’

  The kettle comes to a crescendo, clicks off.

  ‘But I think you need the money. Kathy told me you’ve shut Kitteridge’s. Without Martin at the helm I knew it wouldn’t be long, but to barely last a couple of days! That’s impressive, even for you.’

  She makes Howard’s tea in a mug, knowing Susan only ever uses teapots, cups and saucers. ‘I’ll expect you’ll want some of Martin’s belongings while you’re here. Most of it’s only fit for the charity shop.’

  ‘He must have really, really hated you. To leave you with nothing? I mean, incredible when you think of it.’

  That’s it. The gloves are off. ‘Anything of his of value I’ve already pawned,’ she lies.

  ‘No doubt you’ll need every penny.’ Her face contorts. Darkens.

  ‘Howard doesn’t take sugar, does he? You were both watching your weight last time I saw you. I’d ask how that’s going, but…’ She shrugs. ‘I can see that for myself.’

  Susan smooths down her jumper, places her hands on her hips. ‘You vindictive little…’

  ‘Would you take this in for Howard? Could you manage that?’ She doesn’t hand it to her, but places it on the island, slides it across. Tea slops over the sides.

  Susan leans in. The light creates angles on her face, sharp as origami. ‘You always were a barren useless lump. You know what I wish?’

  Melody leans in too, their foreheads inches apart. ‘Grandchildren? No, wait, I know. That it was me who died and not him?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Trite and unoriginal.’ Melody takes out another cigarette, lights it, and blows smoke in her face. ‘You never understood Martin and me.’

  ‘You ruined him. My boy… my…’ Susan looks away, but holds it together. Strength is a quality she appreciates, even in the enemy.

  Melody lowers her gaze. ‘We hate one another. That won’t change. But we’ve both lost him and it hurts. Someone’s going to pay for what happened to Martin, I promise you that.’

  Susan gives her a look up and down, her expression unreadable and purses her lips. ‘The Family Liaison Officer called, PC Baqri. His body won’t be released for at least a week or two. We’d better discuss how we’ll handle it.’

  Why hadn’t she received a call? Then she remembers, she’d opted out of that. ‘Yes, the arrangements.’

  ‘I think it best if we organise the funeral.’

  The protestation dies in her throat, the last thing she wants to organise is a funeral. Something off her plate at last. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is. We’ll do it down here, where his friends are.’

  Out the window, the estate agent ambles around the decking with his hands in his pockets. He pauses in front of the chiminea. She hasn’t checked, but it is quite possible he is looking at Cleopatra’s charred rib cage.

  ‘And Susan. If you want to sell the house, you have my permission. Let’s have as clean a break from this horrible mess as we can get.’

  Susan picks up the mug with Howard’s tea. ‘There is no clean break from something like this.’

  29

  Ten months prior to the death

  of Martin Kitteridge

  Absurd, these lengths she must go to.

  The bathroom door is locked. She unwraps the tampon, drops it in a cup. Fills the cup with joke shop blood. She waits, curating a playlist on her phone. After a few minutes she removes the tampon and wraps it in a tissue. Red blooms over the paper. A Velvetine No.442 by Crown. Then she deposits it carefully, obviously, at the top of the bin. She sets a reminder on her phone to do the same the next day.

  Martin would give in. They could just be one of those unlucky childless couples. He would content himself with being a godfather or an uncle.

  ‘Moody?’ A yell from downstairs. ‘Come on, or we’ll be late!’

  ‘Coming!’

  It’s a busy morning at Kitteridge’s. There’s a limping gerbil whose leg she splints. A chocolate Lab who is off its food. Kathy takes the bloods. There are e-mails. Ally wants to try a body pump class. The British Veterinary Association remind her that her annual membership fees will be renewed via direct debit at the end of the month. At a quarter to eleven Mrs Waterford brings in her cat, Maisie. A simple case of conjunctivitis. Melody administers some drops and writes out a prescription.

  At eleven, she seeks out Hugh.

  ‘Martin finished?’

  ‘All done.’ Hugh points to the room where Lydia is tending to two bitches, post-op, both spayed one after the other. Assembly line surgery, Martin called it.

  She goes to the kitchenette and makes two coffees. Hugh winks as she walks by.

  Melody knocks twice.

  ‘Come.’

  She enters. ‘You sound like a headmaster.’

  Martin has a letter opener in his hand, a small stack of mail in front of him. ‘Moody. Lovely, you’ve bought my rocket fuel.’

  She perches on the edge of his desk, takes out the digestives from the pocket of her pinafore, takes one out and breaks it in half.

  ‘Have you washed your hands?

  ‘Half? Are you rationing me?’

  ‘You’re not fat. Just, robust. Let’s keep it that way.’

  ‘So, Thursday. I’m thinking the Giggling Squid, or Moshimo.’

  ‘Did the operations go smoothly?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Thai or sushi? Or do you fancy something different? There’s that new French place, you know, Le something. Oh, what’s it called?’

  ‘We had sushi last year.’

  ‘Thai, then? Or that French place, I’ll ask Hugh to find out what it’s called.’

  She dips her half-biscuit into her coffee, sucks it and lets it disintegrate in her mouth. ‘You know, if you ever fancy a break from the operating theatre. I wouldn’t mind...’

  ‘Bloody NHS backlogs. Well… it’s a start I suppose.’ Martin has a letter in his hand. ‘I got Hugh to get you an appointmen
t. Check the plumbing and all that.’

  ‘You need to stop treating Hugh like your PA.’

  ‘I’ll get the old mucker to carve some time out for you.’

  ‘I thought we said we’d give it a few more months?’

  ‘The appointment isn’t until July. That is a few more months. If we get pregnant in the meantime we can just cancel. Glad I got the ball rolling now.’ He has a mischievous smile, jiggling the letter opener into the next envelope.

  She sighs. ‘Let’s go with sushi.’

  Martin screws up the next letter, bins it, opens another. ‘Good idea. Get that raw fish in, you know, just in case.’

  ‘So, surgery. How about it?’

  ‘A switcheroo? But why? You already assist on the complex stuff.’

  I’m a better surgeon than you. ‘It’s not the same.’ She lowers her voice, ‘I prefer being away from consults.’

  ‘You do all the large animal work, the call-outs, you’re hardly one dimensional, Moody. You do surgery in the field. We all have to do our share of consults, it’s the nature of our family practice.’

  ‘But you’re more peopley than I am.’

  He puffs out his cheeks. ‘Let me think about it, alright?’ He checks his appointment book, smiles, ‘Austin’s bringing Lucky in for his jabs. What do you have next?’

  She notes the subject changer. ‘Check-up. The setter with leishmania.’

  ‘Ah, leishmania. That’s exotic, see?’ He’s not even looking at her, multi-tasking, reading his next letter.

  ‘Taking blood and dishing out Alopurinol is hardly exotic.’ She drains her mug and for a flash wants to throw it at Martin’s head.

  ‘Ho-ho!’ a smile spreads across his face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You won’t believe it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go and get everyone in here.’

  She sighs, irritated, and rounds up Hugh, Kathy, and Lydia. The people in the waiting room look up, bemused.

  When she re-enters with the rest of the staff, he’s got one foot up on his chair, like a cowboy might rest a leg on a rock and survey the plains below.