by CJ Hannon
They’re somewhere in Peckham. The flat belongs to some film school buddy of Jenna’s, who lets her crash when she works in London. Astrid pads into the kitchen; full ashtrays, the sink crowded with dirty dishes, and barely an inch of countertop clear. Of course, there’s no clean glasses. She holds her hair and hangs her head under the tap, plastering the other side of her face with ketchup and gravy from one of the stacked plates.
‘Gross.’ She turns on the tap, rinses the plates and lifts them onto the draining board, clearing the space. Then she washes her face, hangs her mouth under the tap and gulps the water down greedily.
Does Jenna like this chaos, this break from the order of their flat in Brighton?
Astrid washes up some mugs and makes two cups of tea, and sits in the lounge by her sleeping lover.
She sips at the tea, reads her messages. There’s one from Smithes sent at seven thirty this morning.
Call me when you’re up.
It’s a quarter to nine.
She’s heard whisperings that the guru is getting impatient. Which can only mean the higher-ups are downright restless. Fucking infuriating really. One moment they were moving too fast by arresting the wife, now they were being too slow and methodical.
Astrid pulls a jumper over her head and takes her tea outside, leaving the front door ajar. It’s an ex-council block, spruced up with lots of potted plants and flower trays. On the street people are out, delivery trucks, and cyclists.
Smithes picks up on the second ring.
‘Morning.’
‘Good morning, sir.’ She hears birds. ‘Are you outside?’
‘Only in my garden. Meditating.’
‘On the case?’
‘Not exactly…’ He says slowly. ‘Emptying the mind rather than filling it. Are you in Brighton?’
She leans on the railings, the invisible hands of her hangover squeeze and compress her skull. ‘London. Why?’ He’s forgotten she was supposed to have the day off.
‘I have a favour to ask.’
‘Ask away.’
‘I’ve been invited to a retirement luncheon today with Burrows, and a lot of present and former top brass. Someone dropped out, and Burrows is nudging me to do a bit more schmoozing to raise my profile. I’ve told the control room and the team that you’re in the chair for the rest of the day. I hope that’s okay?’
She could hardly say no. Perhaps Smithes could casually drop her name into conversation too. ‘I could be back by lunchtime.’
‘That’ll be fine. I appreciate it, Astrid. I’m keen to follow up on this Austin Pemberton, I saw Gardner had a hit on his car. See what headway you can make.’
‘Of course. Good luck, sir.’
When she returns to the flat, Jenna is stretching with a massive yawn, hair in a tangle, a warm smile on her face.
‘Morning, you.’
‘Morning.’ Astrid points to the mug. ‘Should still be warm.’
‘Star. Wow, my head.’ Jenna takes a sip, winces.
‘Want some paras?’
‘Go on, you’ve twisted my arm.’
Astrid retrieves a blister pack from the zipped pouch in her handbag, pops them out. ‘I feel like a cult leader.’
‘Or communion. Same thing, I guess. Cheers.’ Astrid washing hers down with the dregs of her tea. The pills barge down her throat and it’s like her head lightens instantly. Psychosomatic.
‘You were on the phone out there?’
‘Yeah. Listen.’
Jenna tugs a hand through the tangle of her coal black hair, reads her face like she’s reading lines of a screenplay. ‘Let me guess. You’ve got to go back early?’
‘I’m covering Smithes for the day. Late notice. I’m sorry, but if you can get your arse in gear, we could squeeze in a quick breakfast at that place you were raving about last night.’
Jenna gathers up her hair and ties it, springs to her feet. ‘You know what, Detective? I’ll take it.’
‘Jesus Christ, I love you.’ Astrid plants a kiss on her lips. ‘You’re the best of your kind. If you were a broccoli, you’d be a tender stem.’
‘Outrageous.’
Astrid throws Jenna’s her jeans, wondering if she’ll make the 10:45 or the 11:02.
Breakfast delivers. A stack of bubble and squeak patties: potato, spring onion, bacon, and spinach, with a poached egg on top, drizzled with hollandaise sauce. She washes it down with a Virgin Mary and two hastily drunk coffees.
By the time Astrid sticks her head into the MI Room 2, her hangover has all but retreated.
‘Just you?’
Sarah Gardner looks up from her work station. ‘Collins is doing his Fire Safety. Horley’s gone to grab some lunch, ma’am, and the rest are out in the field I think.’
‘So… the email last night, about Pemberton’s Volvo? It appeared near the Kitteridge Practice during the death window, correct?’
‘Right. Want to see?’
Astrid stands behind as Gardner brings the footage up.
‘The Volvo appears on Church Road at twenty-five minutes past seven, disappears off camera. Then Mr Pemberton is back on camera disappearing into a Thai restaurant. He emerges eight minutes later with what looks like a takeaway.’
Gardner fast forwards, switching cameras. The Volvo is there, but the next time his car appears is five minutes after eight.
‘So that’s what, thirty-two minutes in the camera’s blind spot? How far is it to the Kitteridge Practice from there?’
‘According to Google, two point eight kilometres.’
‘Could he have got there and back on foot in that time?’
Gardner leans her head one way, then the other, weighing it up. Shrugs. ‘Five point six kilometres. Very doable for an athlete.’
‘Our man’s no athlete. Does a lot of walking though.’ Astrid gnaws on her lip. ‘Fancy getting out of here for a bit?’
‘I’m going through MK’s finances.’ Gardner points at the screen.
‘Come on,’ Astrid says. ‘It’s good to have a break from the screen, do some real detective work.’
Astrid enters the Thai on Church Road, holding the door open for Gardner. A little bell tinkles above the door. There’s a fish tank with a few colourful specimens in, and a lot of bamboo and fake leaves.
‘Hello, table for two?’ A waitress picks up two menus.
The scents of lime, coriander, and chilli, waft through from a kitchen. Despite her large breakfast, she can’t help but feel hungry.
She flashes her warrant card. ‘DI Van Doren, this is my colleague Sarah Gardner. Could I have a word with the manager?’
After a brief exchange in the kitchen, a pretty middle-aged woman appears. Gardner shows the manager the CCTV footage of Austin Pemberton.
‘Yes. Mr Pemberton. He is a regular. Spring rolls, fish cakes, and a red beef curry. Always the same.’ She smiles.
‘So, you can confirm he had an order, waited for it, and left?’
‘Over there, yes.’ She points to a coat-stand and three chairs. ‘Five minutes maybe and he go.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
Astrid leads them out.
‘That went as expected,’ Gardner says.
‘We have to check everything. Even the givens. On the train down, I had this crazy theory.’
‘Oh?’
‘I thought, what if the snake was kept somewhere in the restaurant? Pemberton goes in, smuggles it out in takeaway bags, pegs it over to the practice and lets it loose.’
‘Wow!’ Gardner laughs, ‘That sounds pretty… I don’t want to say far-fetched, but…’
‘It’s a crackers theory,’ Astrid admits. ‘But it isn’t impossible. Well. Maybe it is. That’s what we need to find out now.’ She strips off her jumper and hands it to Gardner. She’s wearing her sports top, having got changed at Sussex House before they set out.
Astrid jumps up and down on the spot trying to get some warmth into h
er calves and checks the route she has to run on her phone.
‘Right, you ready to time me?’
Gardner’s lively eyes take her in, ‘Oh, I’m ready. But are you?’
‘Alright, off I go.’ Astrid takes off, not at a sprint, but a fast jog. Austin Pemberton’s running speed was a tricky variable to predict. He’d walked Lucky every day for God knows how many years. He certainly wasn’t unfit, but he was no bolt of lightning either.
She cuts through the car park of an apartment block, skirting the building and connecting up with a footpath. Then she’s on the parallel road. Right. Round a dog walker, her breath still light. She’s reminded how much she hates running, the compression of joints, the erosion of her anatomy. Cycling is much more fluid.
Hot armpits, cold face, complaining lungs. She rounds a corner, running at a good jog and reaches the Kitteridge Practice. She runs over the chessboard path, taps the bright front door, turns, and begins the return journey.
Jenna’s trainers are rubbing. Any longer and she’d have a collection of blisters to attend to later.
Gardner waits, and presses the screen of her phone theatrically to stop the timer. Astrid plants her hands on her knees, taking in delicious gulps of air.
‘Well?’
‘Twenty-nine minutes and forty-eight seconds. Pemberton had two minutes longer.’
She stands straight, hands on hips, and wipes a bead of already cooling sweat from her brow. ‘I wasn’t leathering it, either. But would that be enough spare time?’
‘Actually, I’ve watched some videos on YouTube. Experts can catch cobras in less than forty seconds. But to have time to release it, to let it bite and then capture it? Unlikely, but not impossible.’
‘Mr Pemberton’s still in the frame then, with some serious questions to answer.’
‘Like his thirty-two minutes in the camera blind spot to account for,’ Gardner says.
‘At the exact time Martin Kitteridge was murdered.’
36
Melody
‘Auntie Mel, come look at our guinea pigs!’
Melody dabs her mouth with her napkin.
‘Go ahead, if you’re finished?’ Ally says, picking up the dish of the last few uneaten potatoes, and the gravy boat.
‘I’ve finished,’ Melody says. ‘The chicken was a little overdone and dry, but the rest was fine.’
Tristan snorts into his wine. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Duly noted for next time,’ says Ally, smiling. ‘Dessert in five. Pavlova.’
Melody accompanies Lucy and Samantha up to their bedroom and meets Pip and Squeak. Their tank is big and clean and the guinea pigs are in fine condition. One is a real scrabbler and scratches her forearm with its claw when she handles it. Of the two, it’s her favourite.
After dessert she observes bath time as an uninterested social worker might. The excitement, the yelling, the constant refereeing by Ally. What was it that drew people to parenthood? Statistically it was irrefutable that more people wanted to do it than not. Ally often talked about the burning glow of love for her children, but for her, Melody, there was nothing but a clearing where that fire of love should be.
‘You can be my sounding boards,’ Melody says, once the kids are asleep. She takes the Manilla folder from her backpack, eases off the stretchy string and places her documents on the coffee table. Organising them into distinct piles.
‘And this is what, exactly?’ Ally asks.
‘My plan.’ Melody shows her the printout of her list of suspects, now transformed into a spreadsheet. ‘It’s my list of suspects and material gathered to date.’
Tristan reaches for one of the stacks. ‘You know, Melody. I don’t know if you’ve heard about this, but there’s this organisation that does all this work for you. It’s called the police.’
‘Is he being sarcastic?’ she says to Ally.
‘Why is my name on here?’ Tristan asks, jabbing his finger at the list. ‘Me? Really?’
‘I put everyone I know with a connection to Martin. Don’t worry, you didn’t get a tick in any of my columns.’
‘Marvellous!’
She gives them a moment to leaf through her supporting work.
Tristan holds up the newspaper clipping of Martin and Kathy from seven years ago, ‘Pretty spurious.’
‘I know. Poor Kathy couldn’t hurt a fly. Still. It’s my method.’
‘Are these Sheridan’s snakes?’ Ally says, holding up the photos of the inside of Olaf’s van. ‘Pretty damning, no?’
‘Okay, let’s say it was Sheridan. Is there anything you know, substantive, here?’ Tristan asks.
She points to the printout containing Martin’s account summary of the withdrawals leading up to his death, all neatly highlighted in bright green marker. ‘This shows his gambling problem.’
‘The statements don’t prove anything. How can you show that he owed them money?’
‘I have two pieces of proof.’
Tristan looks through the file. ‘Where? I can’t see anything.’
‘One, they murdered Cleopatra as a warning when I didn’t meet the payment deadline. The detective saw it with her own eyes. And two, you knew about the debt, Tristan. You’ve been to these gatherings with Martin. You could give testimony; dates, rough amounts spent, all that.’
He leans back in his chair. ‘That’s why you invited yourself over.’
‘It wasn’t for the chicken.’ Melody looks at Ally. ‘Though the rest was perfectly adequate, as I said.’
‘I’ve got two girls and Ally to think about,’ Tristan says in a low voice. ‘These people have a reputation.’
‘Martin is dead, Tristan. He was your friend.’
Ally reaches over and squeezes his hand. ‘Babe. Just hear her out.’
‘Did you know she was going to ask me this?’
‘No!’
‘You’re a piss poor liar, Al.’ Tristan reaches for the bottle but finds it empty. ‘Fuck. Go on then, gang up on me.’
‘It’s not about ganging up,’ Ally says. ‘What sort of role models are we to the girls if we can’t stand up to the likes of Sheridan?’
Melody leans in. ‘There’s a clear narrative here, Tristan. Martin owed money to morally bankrupt criminals who use exotic snakes in their sick betting circles. It just so happens Martin was killed by a venomous snake. You think that’s a coincidence? I want the police to look in the correct place, for which I need to be taken seriously, and not as some neurotic wife.’
‘I’m not a miracle worker.’
‘But you’ll do it, Tristan. I really must insist upon that,’ Melody says. ‘Confirm that these events are real. That you witnessed Martin racking up debt to his eyeballs. The truth, nothing more.’
‘Would I get in trouble, for going along to an illegal event like that?’
Ally shakes her head. ‘Surely not if you were co-operating.’
‘Squealing. Grassing. Call it what it is.’
‘Don’t be such a child,’ Melody says.
Tristan squints into the bottom of his wine glass, rolling the stem across his palm this way and that. He points at the folder on the table. ‘If I talk about Sheridan to the cops, we need to be sure he’s going down.’
‘Chicken and egg. They will need something to go on.’
‘Tris,’ Ally urges.
He frowns. ‘Fine. If the police happen to ask, they’ll hear the truth from me, okay?’
‘I won’t thank you for simply telling the truth, Tristan. You and I would start to have problems if you didn’t.’ She holds his eye until he looks away, to Ally for help, who holds up her hands in a Don’t ask me sort of way.
Melody gathers up the papers and starts stacking them back into her folder.
‘Sheridan is not going to know what hit him.’
37
Astrid
A call from the control room brings her back to Sussex House.
Hugh Forres
ter wants to go on the record.
Excited, she returns Gardner to her duties and scoops up a bored-looking Collins from the Operation Windbourne room.
‘How was the fire safety training? I’m due next month.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s important stuff,’ he says. ‘But do they really need to make it so bleeding tedious?’
She laughs, in a good mood. ‘You ready to have a run at Mr Forrester?’
‘Chomping at the bit.’
Mr Forrester is chatting to a lawyer when they enter the interview room. The lawyer’s one she’s dealt with before, a reasonable enough woman from memory. Hugh Forrester is wearing a dark navy suit with a fitted cream shirt. A prim gentleman, proud of his clean appearance. Astrid makes the introductions, and gets straight down to business.
‘So, Mr Forrester. There’s something you’d like to tell us?’
The lawyer puts up a staying hand to her client. ‘I’d like my client’s willingness to co-operate on the record, and we’d like your assurance that what he is about to share can be kept in the strictest of confidences.’
Astrid leans forward. ‘The co-operation is noted and welcome. I give no assurances until I understand its impact upon the case.’
There’s a pause.
‘Come on, you know how it works,’ she says to the lawyer. ‘We can’t promise anything.’
‘It’s fine,’ Hugh says, in a low voice. ‘She’ll understand.’
Astrid shoots Collins a look, for theatre more than anything. ‘What will I understand, Mr Forrester?’
He clears his throat, clasps his hands together on the table and looks into space as if reading off an invisible teleprompter.
‘I realise now that I may be under suspicion and would like to clear my name. It’s about my whereabouts, at the time of Martin’s death.’
‘You said you were walking into Brighton, to go to meet friends in a pub?’
‘I did say that yes. It wasn’t exactly true.’
Collins foot is tap tapping. ‘Go on.’