Dark Vet

by CJ Hannon

  ‘During the hours of Martin’s death… I was at an…an establishment in Hove for gentlemen to… be with other like-minded gentlemen.’

  I see. ‘The Boiler Room?’

  He looks into his hands. His shame irritates her.

  ‘And you can prove you were there, Mr Forrester?’

  ‘The establishment will. I had to sign in and sign out. I have a receipt too.’ He offers it.

  ‘And once you’ve confirmed it, Detective, my client would like the utmost discretion. What he does in his private time is his business as long as he is operating within the law.’

  ‘We’re hardly going to notify the Argus about it,’ Collins says.

  But she’s far more irritated. ‘When you aren’t forthcoming, you slow the investigation down. I’m glad you’ve finally found the backbone to come in, Mr Forrester.’

  He plants a palm down on the table. ‘Backbone? How d–’

  ‘I think we’re done here. We’ll see if this checks out.’ She stands and indicates the door.

  When Mr Forrester passes, she catches his arm.

  ‘Where’s your pride in who you are?’

  He yanks his arm away, brushes down his suit in two stiff sweeps of the hand. ‘The relative freedom and understanding you enjoy now, Detective, had its price. I’ll take no lectures from those who didn’t have to foot the bill.’

  Stunned, she watches them leave.

  Collins whistles.

  ‘What?’ she snaps.

  ‘Just to check… the Boiler Room… is that like a–’

  ‘Christ, Collins. It’s a gay sauna! You know, where men go to fuck each other silly.’

  She’d said it to shock, but Collins lets out a short hoot of laughter.

  And Astrid can’t help but crack a smile either. ‘Well… good for them, I suppose.’ She runs a hand through her hair. ‘Christ, Collins. Not my finest moment. Slight hangover, it’s turning me into a grouch.’

  ‘You might still catch him.’

  ‘You’re right. We wouldn’t want any complaints now, would we?’

  Astrid catches up with him in the car park. It’s dark, lit by the reversing lights of the first few cars heading home.

  ‘Mr Forrester, a moment, please.’

  He waits, stony faced. ‘The type who needs to get in the last word? Save it.’

  ‘I came to apologise; I shouldn’t have said that back there. It was rude and wrong.’

  Something passes over his face, a stab of anguish perhaps. ‘Why say such spiteful things?’

  ‘I had no right. Martin Kitteridge’s killer is still out there. When I found out you were holding something back, I got annoyed. Got personal. Went instinctively for where it would hurt.’

  ‘Look I–’ He rubs the back of his head, stares at his feet. ‘There was something else…’

  ‘No more secrets, Mr Forrester. Let’s be open, respectful.’

  ‘It’s about Martin.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was having an affair.’

  It takes her a second to process… nothing had come up from his e-mails or phone records to suggest an affair. ‘With you?’

  Hugh lets out a mirthful smirk. ‘Oh, please. Martin pointed straight north.’

  ‘Why now? Why not say anything when we first spoke with you?’

  ‘Melody. I know she looks like she’s armour-shelled, but losing Martin must have been bad enough, can you imagine–’

  ‘Stop. Grab your lawyer if you still want her present. But we need to get this down on the record.’ She grasps his shoulder. ‘You’ve done the right thing in sharing this information, Hugh. Let’s go back inside and do this the right way.’

  Thursday morning. Astrid relishes the moment of peace. The quiet. The bare, leafless beech trees and evergreen shrubs, the neatness of the grounds. There’s a message from Jenna, saying she’s thinking of her and apologising for not being there. Astrid pulls on gloves and gathers the bunch of tulips from the passenger seat.

  Two figures stand by a gravestone in the distance. Her mum, and Ian. She’s surprised Adam, her step-father, hasn’t come.

  Ian clasps her hand warmly. ‘Good to see you again so soon, Astrid.’

  Mum gathers her into a hug. ‘Come here, poppet.’

  ‘No Dad, then?’

  ‘He’s got a stinking cold; thought he’d give us a bit of space you know. Still funny about it after all these years. Tulips! How lovely.’ Mum cups the petals of one with a gloved hand.

  The tulips are a little nod to her father’s Dutch heritage. A tad gauche, perhaps, but at least it wasn’t clogs and pancakes. ‘I’ll put them down here.’ Astrid places them by a six pack of beer and a bunch of lilies.

  ‘Beer, Ian? Not planning on cracking them open here are you? I might have to arrest you.’

  Ian Goodworth looks pleased with himself. ‘We used to drink those after shift together back in the day, sitting right on the bonnet of the patrol car, looking out to sea. Different time then, course. Nope, these ones are for Sandy, or the elements.’

  The tramps more like.

  ‘You look tired, poppet.’ Her mother links an arm through her own. ‘I know how that organisation works, they take and take. Don’t give them everything you have.’ A warning stare, a nod to the tombstone.

  The engraving is a little mossy, but still legible.

  Sanders Van Doren

  1949-1990

  Loving Father, Husband &

  Dutiful Copper

  She rests a hand on stone. It’s funny. In every memory of her father, he is always in his uniform.

  ‘You know, I had dozens of partners over the years, but none ever came close to him,’ Ian says. Tears well in his eyes. ‘I’ll never forgive myself for what happened to him. I should have…’

  Not all this again. She’s heard versions of this self-recrimination before. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Ian. There was nothing you could have done.’ Astrid rests a hand on his shoulder.

  Respects paid, they walk back to the car park together, her arm still linked to her mother’s.

  Leaves whisper under their feet.

  ‘You off back to work now, poppet?’

  Astrid checks the time. ‘Another busy day ahead.’

  Ian asks, ‘How’s that case going?’

  ‘A lot of promising leads.’

  ‘Good. You know I saw that lot yesterday at a retirement dinner. Smithes brown-nosing the Chief Constable. Burrows pumping the flesh.’

  ‘You were there? I had to cover for Bill.’

  ‘That is what you are at the moment, Astrid. Cover for Bill. In every sense.’

  A blackbird swoops from a branch, pecks at the ground and takes off with a worm in its beak.

  ‘I wonder if you should try something different, Astrid.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be out the force necessarily, but there are plenty of roles where you can make a difference without putting yourself in harm’s way.’

  ‘Bringing people to justice does make a difference, Mum.’

  ‘Justice?’ Ian gives a derisive laugh. ‘I thought that once. You think Sandy got any justice? The years beat it out of you. You see the innocent locked up, the guilty walk enough times, enough bloody unsolved cases to stuff a sports hall… justice.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘Ian, don’t,’ Mum says. ‘Not today, please.’

  ‘You think I’m naive. But without the hope of justice, what else is there? What peace for the victims and their families? There has to be a reckoning.’

  ‘A reckoning.’ He nods. ‘For what it’s worth, I hope you’re right. Just try not to become like me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know Ian. You’ve not done too badly for yourself.’

  But the light comment falls flat, the pain behind his eyes overwhelms his sparkle. And she hopes, badly, that she can heed his advice.

  At Sussex House, she sticks her he
ad in the MI Room 2.

  ‘Anyone seen DCI Smithes?’

  Heads shake.

  Critchlow appears. ‘Ma’am? Do you have a minute?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’ve checked out the address listed for Olaf Gudmundsen in Bexhill.’ Critchlow holds up his phone. The screen shows a photo of a boarded-up bungalow. He swipes, showing her more. ‘Mountain of mail through the letterbox. We’ve spoken to the neighbours. Seems nobody’s been there for at least six months.’

  ‘Vehicle?’

  ‘I’ve got an alert issued on the ANPR to notify me if it turns up. Nothing yet. He’s probably driving with fake plates.’

  ‘Keep me posted. Thanks.’

  Astrid pulls up a chair next to Horley and writes down a name on a Post-it. She doesn’t want anyone to hear yet, not until she’s spoken to Smithes. ‘I want you to pull up all correspondence between Martin and this name, do a manual read through.’

  Horley barely glances away from the screen. ‘Manual? That’ll take longer. Can’t we just keyword it?’

  ‘I’m okay with longer. But do it as a priority, please. Flag anything that jumps out, as soon as you have it.’

  He stops typing. She has his full attention now. ‘Am I alright to touch this paper, or is it red hot?’

  ‘Get on it, Horley.’ She makes a zipping motion across her mouth.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She moves on to the next thing on her mental to do list. Pemberton. She finds a quiet spot, and dials his number.

  He picks up on the eighth ring. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Pemberton, I hope I’m not disturbing? It’s Detective Van Doren.’

  ‘Detective. All well, I hope?’

  ‘There was a detail from our interview I wanted to go over with you, if you can spare a minute?’

  ‘Please, by all means.’ He sounds at ease; she imagines him in his armchair, a mug of coffee in hand. Or perhaps a glass of rosé. It is ten a.m. after all.

  ‘On January the tenth, in your statement you said you were at home all evening?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ He sounds a little less sure of himself now.

  ‘Mr Pemberton, we have CCTV footage of you and your Volvo in Hove during the two-hour period in which Martin died.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Going into a Thai restaurant on Church Road.’

  ‘Blimey, yes! Of course. I completely forgot. I picked up a takeaway. I’m dreadfully sorry, I thought I’d done that on the Thursday, but yes, by George it must have been the Friday.’

  So far, so acceptable. Now for the trap. ‘And, then? You drove straight home and tucked in front of the TV, I imagine?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Pemberton side-steps. A pause. ‘I was rather peckish. Please don’t think ill of me, but I scoffed the whole lot in the car. It’s all better when it’s hot, especially the spring rolls and fish cakes. They go soggy otherwise.’

  ‘So, you sat in your car and ate it all? Why not eat in the restaurant?’

  ‘It is a sad man who dines alone. If I must do it, I’d rather be in the privacy of my car or house…’

  ‘I see. Thank you for clearing that up for me, Mr Pemberton. I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  She rings off, sensing that if he is lying, he’s very good at it. But then, murderers often are.

  Through the gap in the slatted blinds she spots a Smithesesque shadow passing. She rushes, pops her head out. It’s him, walking with someone. ‘DCI Smithes, sir!’

  He turns, and so does Burrows, the Chief Super, and she curses inwardly.

  ‘Excuse me for interrupting. Sir.’ She gives Burrows a deferential nod.

  The guru keeps his expression calm. Inclines his head towards the lift. ‘Walk with us.’

  ‘When you have a moment, we have a possible breakthrough in the case.’

  Burrows raises an eyebrow. ‘Care to join us in the lift, we’re on our way to a meeting. If you don’t object to a curious eavesdropper?’

  Sweat gathers in the small of her back. They wait for the lift to empty, then the three of them enter. The doors close.

  ‘Hugh Forrester, the receptionist, suspected the victim was having an affair.’

  ‘Who with?’ Smithes asks.

  ‘Kathy Spellerman, the vet nurse.’

  Burrow’s lets out a whistle. ‘The jilted lover? Or maybe the wife knew?’

  ‘Mr Forrester doesn’t think Mrs Kitteridge knew.’

  ‘Let’s confirm it definitely took place,’ Smithes says. ‘Bring in Spellerman now, under arrest if necessary,’ he says, pointedly. ‘We’ll interview together at say,’ he checks his watch, ‘anytime from one onwards.’

  ‘What made this man come forward?’ Burrows asks.

  ‘Bridge building, sir.’

  ‘Good police work more like. Detective. Keep it up.’ Burrows nods. The lift doors part. The two men leave, off to their important meeting. Astrid remains in the lift, stuck in her box. What did Burrows make of her?

  She fires off a message to Critchlow to bring in Spellerman, hoping he’s not off on another task already. Arrest might not be necessary, and she’d bet Kathy would come in voluntarily. She’d come across as the meek, goody-two-shoes sort.

  Though looks could be deceiving.

  Ground level. At the coffee machine she feeds in change, chooses to take it black. It hums in a monotone. Thank Christ her normal desk isn’t within earshot; this buzzing would drive her crazy. She takes a sip, burns her lip. Then sees a face she can’t quite correlate to the familiar office environment.

  It’s Melody Kitteridge.

  Collins is a step behind her, struggling to keep pace. Has she found out about the affair? Mrs Kitteridge has a folder tucked under her arm and a determined air that screams that this will be a pain in the arse. Damn, why hadn’t she insisted, insisted on her using Baqri? She was an excellent FLO, trained for it.

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge. You’ve come all the way to Hollingbury to see us, when you could have just called.’

  She practically thrusts the folder into her hands. ‘We need to talk, somewhere quiet.’

  Collins looks apologetic. He must have signed her in.

  She sighs. This was all she needed. ‘You’d better follow me, then, Mrs Kitteridge.’

  38

  Melody

  The drab interview room is presumably decorated to drain interviewees of their fight.

  ‘Is he going to Colombia to fetch the coffee himself?’

  A smile tugs at the edges of Detective Van Doren’s mouth. ‘Here he is. I hope you’re ready to be disappointed.’

  Detective Collins puts a coffee down in front of her in a disposable cup with a sugar packet and a stirrer.

  ‘Not very environmentally friendly, is it?’

  ‘So, what can we do for you, Mrs Kitteridge?’

  ‘I have a theory about who killed Martin.’

  ‘We’re listening.’

  Melody leafs through her pages of the bank statements, points a finger to the highlighted amounts. ‘Martin, well, we, as it transpires, are in a horrendous amount of debt.’

  The detective doesn’t look surprised. This much she knows.

  ‘He was gambling at illegal events. I had no idea to what extent until a man came to threaten me and said the debt was mine now Martin had died.’

  Van Doren leans towards her. ‘Name? When was this?’

  ‘The day after Martin died. This thug, I don’t know his name. I call him Pug because he looks like one. Bald. Arms like tree trunks. A little scar, here, and a sleeper ear-ring.’

  ‘We know him,’ Collins says. ‘Have you ever heard the name Richie Sheridan?’

  ‘Yes. That’s who Martin owes the money to.’

  DC Collins looks confused.

  ‘So, the five grand was some sort of pay-off.’ Van Doren says.

  ‘A show of good will. It’s a fraction of what we
owe.’

  ‘And your cat…’

  ‘If you hadn’t arrested me, then Cleopatra would still be with us.’

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge,’ Detective Van Doren says, ‘while that was extremely regrettable, you didn’t help yourself. Why couldn’t you have come to us with this earlier?’

  ‘Surely that’s obvious? This brute said he would “do me in” if I talked to the police. But now, Tristan Campbell, a friend of Martin’s, can confirm that Martin went regularly to these illegal gambling events and that he racked up lots of debt there.’

  Van Doren is scribbling something down.

  ‘Martin practically cleared us out. He couldn’t pay and that’s what got him killed.’

  ‘I can see a potential motive there, Mrs Kitteridge.’ There’s something cautious in Van Doren’s tone. ‘Proving it is another matter entirely.’

  ‘That’s your job, isn’t it?’ Melody takes a sip of her coffee. It’s dreadful.

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge, Sheridan is organised crime, and using a snake is not his normal MO.’

  ‘Then you’re badly informed.’ Time for the hook. ‘Do you know the nature of these gambling events? Live animals in fights and races, including snakes. That’s why Martin first went there. He didn’t just gamble at these events. He worked there.’

  She can tell they’re shocked. ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘He was their so-called “dark vet”. He tended to their illegal animals, put down injured dogs after fights. He was the unofficial doctor too, stitching up wounds if the clientele brawled. Anything to avoid contact with hospitals or the police, where real questions might get asked.’

  ‘Snakes? Illegal Gambling? How do you know all this, Mrs Kitteridge? From this…’ Collins checks his notes, ‘Tristan Campbell?’

  ‘Tristan will confirm it, yes, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes too. I went to one.’

  ‘You infiltrated one of these events?’

  ‘On Tuesday, in fact. You’re looking at Richie Sheridan’s new “dark vet”. I must say I wasn’t given much choice in the matter; it was either that or they paint my walls again, only this time with my blood.’

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge,’ Van Doren says, angry. ‘Again! Why didn’t you come to us sooner?’

  ‘My way is better.’ Melody takes out her phone and shows the detectives the photo she took of the hay barn with the lights spilling out of it. ‘Now, in here was where they had the snake race and the dog-fight.’