by CJ Hannon
‘Sorry, everyone, this will just take a moment, but I’ve got some fabulous news.’ He holds the letter up facing them. She leans forward, squinting, but it’s too small to read.
‘Well?’ Kathy says.
He turns the sheet, snaps it taut and starts to read. ‘Dear Mr Kitteridge, I’m delighted to inform you that you have been nominated for Vet of the Year…’
The next lines are drowned out by a clap from Hugh and a squeal from Lydia. One by one they go over, Hugh offering a handshake, the women a congratulatory hug.
‘It’s a public vote, so Hugh, perhaps you could manage this for us? Get this letter framed and put it in the waiting room, e-mail the voting link to the clients, that kind of thing.’
‘Of course. Some flyers perhaps, with the voting details? I could get in touch with the Argus.’
‘Good man.’
‘Congratulations, darling,’ Melody says.
She clears out with the rest of the staff with the two empty coffee cups and washes them up in the kitchenette. Two minutes until her next appointment.
She goes into the toilet, locks the door behind her.
With the palm of her hand she thumps the mirror. Her image wobbles a moment, like she might be about to vanish.
30
Astrid
At Collins’ insistence, they stop for lunch at the pub though Astrid insists they sit at the bar and order something quick; the last thing she wants is for people to think the police are having leisurely country pub lunches while there’s a murderer to catch.
‘Thoughts, Collins?’
He dabs his mouth with a napkin, casts his eyes left and right. ‘Here?’
‘Nobody’s within earshot.’
Collins leans in and whispers.
‘Boiling it down, the man has no alibi and a possible motive.’
‘Lucky’s revenge. You should’ve seen the set-up out back. It was like a mini-Crufts.’
Collins gets up from his stool, brushes crumbs off his trousers. ‘It takes all sorts.’
Astrid checks her phone, grabs his arm. ‘Gardner’s just sent through the CCTV from Timpson. Let’s go to the car.’
They hurry out, Astrid starting the engine to get the heater going.
She taps the link on her mobile screen to the encrypted Windbourne folder, then opens the video file. Collins leans across. Sweet chorizo on his breath. It takes a few seconds to load, the network coverage not being great in Fulking. Then there it is, an image of the shop counter in clear black and white.
‘You think we are about to see Mr Pemberton again?’ Collins says. ‘That’d be convenient, we could pop straight back over.’
A man walks into the shop wearing a woolly hat.
‘Now who is that?
The man puts two keys down on the counter, is saying something. There’s no sound but it’s easy to guess he is asking for copies. Then the man takes off his hat, and rubs his short hair.
It takes a moment but she recognises the face, his photo is on the board in the Windbourne incident room.
Astrid and Collins pull up behind an illegally parked white van outside the Kitteridge vet practice.
‘Shall we give them a ticket?’ Collins jokes.
Two workmen on ladders are taking down the brassy Kitteridge Practice sign. The man they’ve come to see, the receptionist, Hugh Forrester, appraises the men with folded arms from the pathway below.
‘Be careful with that. It’s very valuable.’
Mr Forrester appears to be more interested in the arse of one of the workers than the sign.
‘Mr Forrester?’
He turns. ‘Hello?’
Rumbled. ‘DI Van Doren. This is DC Collins. Could we have a word in private?’
They duck under the workmen and enter the practice. Hugh leads them into the lobby and pulls the chairs into a circle. ‘As good a place as any. Is this to follow up on my statement?’
Astrid has read it, Mr Forrester was without an alibi, and now they have something even more concerning. She decides to test him out first, see if he’ll lie.
‘We’re just checking some inconsistencies between some of the staff statements.’
‘Really?’ His eyebrows rise. ‘I’m happy to clear up any misunderstanding.’
‘It’s about access to Mr Kitteridge’s office. There was a key on his body, and Mrs Kitteridge says she had the only other key, which she used to access the room.’
‘That’s not accurate, Detective. There were more copies of the key, in fact I made two copies myself a few months back. One to keep at the practice behind reception for emergencies and a spare for Martin.’
Well that opens up the field. ‘Why was Mrs Kitteridge under the impression she had the only spare?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘She misses a lot. She’s often on call-outs, the odd conference. It didn’t really warrant a big briefing to all hands, as it were.’
She senses Collins shifting his weight on the seat beside her, his signal. ‘Were you asked to make the copies by someone, Mr Forrester? Or was it on your own initiative?’
‘Martin asked me to do it. In fact, the office spare…’ Hugh pops up and rummages around the drawers in reception, ‘…is here, but also…’ He returns and holds out two keys. ‘He got me to cut him a couple of spares of this one too.’
Astrid nods, remembering that there were two different keys in the CCTV video. ‘And what does this second key open?’
‘No idea,’ Hugh says. ‘I was Martin’s errand boy. I did as I was bid.’
‘May I?’ Collins takes both keys and tries them in every door. ‘Yep, this one’s for Martin’s office. But the other one, it’s not a cruciform key like the others.’ He tries it anyway, and confirms it fits no door in the practice.
Astrid sighs inwardly. A mystery key.
‘And the drawer those were kept in, Mr Forrester, who has access to that?’
‘Just me. It’s locked.’
‘I see.’
It’s like he realises the implications of what he’s just said: he shifts uncomfortably on the spot.
‘Could you remind us of your movements the day of Martin’s death please, Mr Forrester?’
‘Now look.’
There’s a rap at the door. The workmen.
‘All done.’
‘You’ll have to excuse me a moment.’ Mr Forrester springs up.
‘We can wait.’
She huddles with Collins at the back of reception.
‘Is it me or are you picking up some shady vibes?’ Collins starts. ‘The guy has no alibi, we’ve got him on camera getting keys cut to the office which he says he was asked to do. He had private access to the room.’
She can tell by his excitement he wants to bring him in, but the Melody Kitteridge debacle is still fresh in her mind. Plus, she has her reservations. ‘There’s a big hairy but.’
‘Which is?’
‘MK’s office key. We now know there are at least four sets. One found on the victim, the wife’s set, this one that Mr Forrester has in the reception, and a fourth copy which is unaccounted for. Can you imagine in court? We’d get ripped to shreds.’
‘We’re a long way from court.’
She sighs. ‘Collins, you think the roles are neatly defined; the police gather the evidence and make the arrest, the baton passes over and the Crown prosecutes.’
‘And that isn’t how it is?’
‘On paper. But if you start to think like a prosecuting barrister and the defence during the investigation, testing out and disproving the counter arguments, you stifle the possibilities for the defence. It leads to better conviction rates. Less like partitioned roles, and more of a symbiosis.’
‘Interesting,’ Collins admits. ‘That receptionist, he’s setting off my alarm bells.’
She respects his instincts, but evidence must be their overriding guide. ‘Let’s gently apply a bit more pressure, see how he reacts.’
‘Okay.’
Mr Forrester returns, hands clasped together. ‘Sorry about that, lot to sort out as you can imagine. Are we just about done for today, Detectives?’
‘We do have a couple more questions,’ Collins says.
‘Happy to. But I think as a precaution, I’d like my lawyer present for any further questions.’
‘I see,’ Astrid says. ‘No need to trouble your lawyer for today. We’ve got all we need for now, Mr Forrester. We’ll be in touch.’
As soon as they’re in the car, Collins slaps the dash, more jubilant than annoyed. ‘We rattled him. Wanting to lawyer-up like that, he’s got to be hiding something.’
Astrid twists the key in the ignition. The car hums to life. A glance back. A stony-faced Hugh Forrester, watches, framed by the dark doorway.
31
Melody
Tuesday. Pug has sent her an hour and GPS co-ordinates. Nothing more.
Fog hangs low over the shadowy Downs. The GPS directs Melody to turn, though she can barely make out the road. The Defender dips into a puddled pothole and squeezes between hedgerows down a single track. She’s barely doing fifteen miles per hour, her nose practically pressed to the windscreen. It’s like trying to see through milk. The hedgerows guide, pawing at her paintwork when she strays too far to one side.
A shape darts in front of her.
She stabs the brake. The Defender lurches to a stop. She hasn’t hit it, has she?
Melody opens the car door into the hedge and squeezes out.
The engine hums, fog swirls in the headlamps.
Nothing on the bumper or the ground. She steps forward. Can smell them. Shit. Mud. Earthy smell of matted wool. One bleats. Finally, her eyes grip onto something. Outlines. Two. No, three. No, four of them.
‘How did you get out?’ She traces a hand along the hedgerow until she finds a gap. The field gate is open, the twine snapped. Melody ushers them back into the field, then gets some wire from her car and makes a new loop to hook over the post.
A low rumble. It’s the engine of another car, a Jeep or Discovery maybe. It’s followed by another. The faint orbs of light grow larger, and settle to a stop behind her Defender.
A parp on the horn.
This must be the right road then. No going back now.
She drives the Defender another mile or so up the road, followed, like a military convoy.
The navigation app speaks, telling her to turn. The wooden sign reads: Plum Tree Farm.
You have reached your destination.
Bright security lights battle the fog. She parks in front of a flint stone farmhouse. There’s scaffolding erected by what looks to be old stables. She can guess the story; turning them into holiday lets or accommodation. Farmers used to farm. Now they diversify.
More cars arrive around her, parking up either side. Two men in long winter coats jump out, laughing about something. They could just as easily have been Martin and Tristan.
Outside, the air is thick and smoky, yet sharp as iced vodka.
The new arrivals seem to be heading to the hive of activity by the hay barn. Melody grabs her field bag and crunches over, looking for Pug. A man heaves a large log onto a fire. Embers crackle and snap, briefly illuminating a hog on the spit above it. The skin is blackened and hissing. From a van, a burly sort unloads a keg and barks an instruction to someone unseen.
A distinctive looking man, in circular John Lennon glasses, with long blonde hair and a beard, slides open the door of his Transporter. Their eyes meet as she passes.
Inside the barn, stacked hay bales make perimeter walls. Lighting is strung, trestle tables and bales for seating. A long bar is already dotted with punters drinking beer from plastic cups. Melody walks in further, seeing a circular arena made up of bales. Cockfighting, she supposes, with a sickening feeling in her belly. Diversification indeed.
This will not be an easy evening.
Pug waves her over. He’s sitting at the bar talking to a skinny, swarthy looking man. Sheridan?
‘Here I am.’ She flashes a look at his companion, but Pug sends him away with a look. Some underling then. ‘What are the requirements?’
Pug chuckles. ‘Your husband was a lot chattier; he’d be halfway into his first ale by now.’
‘I was under the impression this was a job, not a jolly.’
‘Too right, too right. Well, Mrs Kitteridge, the terms are these. While you help us out, the interest on your debt is frozen, and the payback time extended to six months. Like I said, Mr Sheridan can be an extremely reasonable man.’
‘Where is he?’ She looks around. ‘I’d like to thank him.’
‘Don’t you mind about that. You go snooping for him, I’ll break your nose. Got it?’
She doesn’t doubt it for a second. ‘Understood.’
‘You are our new dark vet. That means any animal treatment you deem necessary.’
‘What sort of animals?’
‘You’ll see. And second, we don’t want the authorities to know about our little gatherings. Which means if anyone needs treatment here, they’ll be put into your care.’
She narrows her eyebrows. ‘I’m a vet. I treat animals.’
‘Humans can be animals,’ Pug says. ‘Other than that, have a flutter if the mood takes you, be on standby.’
‘So–’
‘You can fuck off now,’ Pug says with a shooing gesture.
The barn swells with people. There’s chatter, ale, the roar of laughter over the distant hum of a generator. It is easy to imagine Martin here, laughing at the bar. She looks around for a would-be Richie Sheridan, but instead sees a familiar pinched face.
‘George?’
He scowls. ‘What are you doing here, you bitch?’
‘Charming. I’m not sure what you have to be angry about. You were the one who lied to the police. Whatever got into you?’
‘Bastards fined me,’ Dapper says.
An uneasy silence stretches between them. ‘It was hardly my doing, George. They accused me of murdering Martin and locked me up in a cell because of your false statement. What were you thinking?’
He shuffles from foot to foot, scratches his head under his flat cap. ‘You had me all hot under the collar. I didn’t mean…’
What would someone kind say? Someone like Kathy? ‘Let’s put it behind us, George. Call it a moment of rashness.’
He nods. ‘That’d be agreeable.’
Perhaps she should copy Kathy more often. ‘Tell me. How are the calves?’
‘We lost one in the end.’
She sighs. ‘That’s disappointing.’
‘Not compared to losing your husband it ain’t.’ He folds his arms. ‘But, you should know. I am getting the ventilation sorted next week.’
‘It’s the correct decision.’
He looks at his boots. ‘Is it true, that Kitteridge’s gone under?’
‘Word gets around fast.’
‘This lot here are a good bunch,’ he indicates the group he was chatting to. ‘Farmers all. I’ll get them to send some work your way if you’re setting up on your own.’
‘It’s too soon for me to say. I’m here, working, as it happens.’ She leans in. ‘Do you know which one Richie Sheridan is?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘If you’re looking for a new husband, he’s rich alright, but there are better places to look.’
‘So it would seem.’
Dapper cranes his neck. ‘Can’t see him this minute, but he’s about.’
Someone clears their throat behind her. It’s the wizard with the circular glasses.
‘You. Come and help me please.’ He has a strange accent.
She excuses herself, and follows.
Feedback whines. A mic taps. ‘Gooooood evening all, the first event of the evening is about to start in two minutes, two minutes, please make your way to....’
The voice fades as she exits the barn.
&n
bsp; Pug waddles past. ‘Olaf, you ready or what?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he says, and pulls back the sliding door of his Transporter.
Inside, stacked in rows, are tanks.
Melody takes a step closer, squints.
In each is a snake.
32
Nine months prior to the death of Martin Kitteridge
The oak kitchen worktop is protected with old sheets and easily supports her weight. Melody works the brush into the corner. There is a right angle of masking tape to protect the Wimbourne White No. 239 by Farrow & Ball on the ceiling, but she’s so precise she doesn’t really need it. She’s gone with Green Calke, also by Farrow & Ball, for the walls above the kitchen tiles. It’s a soft sagey green to replace the previous Slipper Satin, another Farrow & Ball whose off-white tones she’d thought would blend beautifully with the ceiling, to give a kind of classy, shadowed effect. The result is disappointing. A rare misjudgement.
The creamy ceiling, tiles and walls. The vanilla-enamelled Russell Hobbs toaster and kettle set. The clotted cream of the bread bin with companion tea and coffee tins. In concert, it is like being trapped inside a giant meringue. Even Martin – who didn’t give two pips about interior design – had declared it: fifty shades of beige. Galling though it was to admit it, on this one occasion, he was right.
Melody finishes, hops down off the counter, hands on hips, and surveys her handiwork. Much better: the light greens bring out the darker shades of foliage outside the window and contrast nicely with the rest of the farmhouse-chic kitchen. Martin is plodding down the stairs and appears in his dressing gown, scratching his beard.
‘Bloody hell, Moody, you were up early.’ He is reading something and switches on the coffee machine to warm the pot already there, oblivious to the decorator’s sheets and the state of the kitchen.
‘What do you think?’
He doesn’t look up from his paper.
‘The new colour.’
He looks up, then frowns. ‘Didn’t you only just do this?’
‘No.’ Five months was hardy recent.
‘A bit better, actually.’ He notices the paint tins. ‘More Farrow & Ball? Jesus, you’ll bankrupt us.’