Dark Vet

by CJ Hannon

  ‘You could’ve got yourself killed.’

  ‘Don’t make the mistake these people have, Detective. They think they’ve got a scared, pliable wife. Someone weak to do their bidding and line their pockets. But they’ve let a parasite in, and I’ll eat them inside out, you see that I don’t.’

  A look passes between the detectives.

  She slides her finger to the next photo. ‘Now you’ll find this particularly interesting. This is Sheridan’s snake handler, Olaf, tending to the snakes in his van.’

  ‘A snake handler?’ Collins leans over the photo. ‘Dark blue T3 Transporter. Did you get the plates?’

  ‘And are those snake tanks inside?’

  ‘I did get the plates and yes, those are snake tanks.’

  ‘Go back to the beginning, minute by minute. Tell us everything you saw that evening, Mrs Kitteridge.’

  Typical. She presents them with the highlight reel and they want to toothcomb the lot. She sighs, and recounts everything she witnessed that evening.

  ‘You can have everything in my folder, all my research. I have my own copies.’

  ‘And these registrations?’ Detective Collins holds up a sheet of paper.

  ‘All the cars at the event, a few of the names I managed to pick up. Our favourite farmer George Dapper was there, by the way. You’ll find my other research; my list of suspects and their ranking against my criteria. Supporting evidence such as bank statements and newspaper clippings.’

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge, I can say with confidence that I’ve never seen anything quite like this before,’ Van Doren says, uselessly.

  ‘I’ve done my part here, Detectives. Now, it’s time for you to do yours. These reprehensible people killed Martin. They killed Cleopatra. And they’re torturing animals. We must stop them.’

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge…’ Van Doren begins, closes her eyes and when they re-open, they have an icy focus. ‘Are these people likely to need you as their “dark vet” again?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, Detective. I’m going tomorrow night.’

  39

  Astrid

  In the back of an unmarked car in a lay-by off the A27, Astrid fights her nerves. An orb of light curves from the Amex stadium, a vibrant torch to the black sky above. Brighton & Hove Albion have a game on that evening.

  She couldn’t give two fucks about football, but from the back seat half-listens to Smithes and Collins talk about the manager, the slim possibility of Europe this season. Her phone rests in her palm, waiting. As soon as Melody Kitteridge gets the location, it’ll automatically forward to her own device.

  A roar goes up from the crowd.

  ‘One-nil Seagulls. Get in,’ Collins says from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Bill?’ she asks. ‘What’s the feeling up top on the information provided by Mrs Kitteridge?’

  ‘Are you worried that the wife’s gift-wrapped us a lead and put it on our laps, how it makes the investigation look?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admits, and touches the window. An insistent chill presses back from the glass, thirstily sapping her body heat.

  ‘It’s like football. People only really remember the result.’

  Astrid checks her tactical tablet. Horley had set it up to display the location of Melody Kitteridge’s Defender, using the same tracking software her husband had used. The dot throbs at her house in Medina Villas. For the op, Melody’s codename is The Lioness.

  She runs her hand under her undercut, softer now. She’ll get Jenna to run the buzzer over it again tomorrow when she gets home.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, impatient. In the seat next to her are their jackets and body armour, a reminder that they don’t know what they’re walking in to.

  Another minute passes. Then her phone vibrates. GPS co-ordinates.

  ‘Incoming.’ Both men turn. The map takes a moment to load up. Not what she expected at all. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Where?’ Smithes demands.

  ‘Newhaven, looks like the industrial estate near the harbour. Am sharing with the team now.’

  ‘Urban? We need somewhere to convene near the site.’

  ‘Three Ponds Holiday Park in Tarring is on the outskirts. They’ve got space.’ Collins offers.

  Smithes nods to her to make the call and she reaches for the radio.

  Collins pulls off the A26 into the Three Ponds Holiday Park. The lights of mobile homes and motorhomes make the tarmac glisten with recent rain.

  The first Tactical Firearm Unit is already there. Astrid checks Melody Kitteridge’s progress. Twenty-five minutes away. She steps out and greets the sergeant, finding it hard to speak. The air is cold.

  Curtains twitch from the mobile homes

  Excepting the team starting in Washington, all are there within ten minutes, but there’s no time to waste. One of the sergeants holds a torch. She spreads an enlarged map over the bonnet.

  ‘It’s this spot here, a lorry depot in one of the warehouses. There’s only two road exits, here and here.’ Astrid marks them with a pen.

  ‘Sergeant, you will go in first, ideally we’ll contain them in the depot and pen them in there. The primary target is the driver of a dark blue Transporter van: Olaf Gudmundsen, he’ll be the one to actually get us Sheridan if we can get him to talk. Arrest Sheridan and any of his lieutenants if they’re there. Anyone else present, we need name, ID, reg, and a brief statement before we let them leave.’

  ‘And if they make it out of the depot?’ the sergeant asks.

  ‘I just spoke to the control room,’ says Smithes. ‘Newhaven is providing patrol units to create road blocks at these two spots.’

  ‘It’s a second layer of containment,’ Astrid says.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I understand there may be armed people on site and, potentially, attack dogs?’

  ‘That’s a very real possibility.’

  Smithes clears his throat. ‘We have authorisation to use taser guns and rubber bullets, Sergeant, on animal or human; though it goes without saying, the cleaner the better.’

  Astrid puts on her own body armour and feels like a beetle, and is grateful to shrug on a POLICE emblazoned jacket over the top.

  She checks the tablet. ‘The Lioness is seven minutes from destination. Everyone be ready for the Go.’

  She gets in the back of the car, lets out a deep breath. ‘Come on, Melody. Just give us the nod.’

  Then they can spring their trap.

  40

  Melody

  The horn of the ferry reverberates around the town. Less a boat, more a collection of lights, sliding out of the harbour. Melody takes a turning to the industrial estate, dipping down, and loses the view. No sign of the police, which is good. They must be hiding well. She cuts the music. She’s made a playlist for the occasion, culminating in “The Final Countdown” by Europe. It is supposed to be energising; perhaps it is, but she needs quiet now.

  Off the main road, it’s another world. Quiet. Apocalyptic.

  The streetlights are weaker, struggling orange orbs against the darkness. Deeper, past the warehouses, chain-links and spiked fencing. Ahead; a huge industrial gate is rolled back. Her destination.

  Her senses sharpen, adrenaline channelling through her body.

  ‘You can do this, Melody. It’s simple.’

  This was her chance to get Sheridan back cleanly. She’d guess it’d be a half hour to an hour before all the punters arrived. Then the small army of police could descend on her signal. The sweet power of retribution, and she held the starter gun.

  Melody swings the car into the forecourt. Huge doors gape open. Within, a line of headlights beams out, sharp as stars. A Jeep revs its engine and accelerates towards her.

  ‘Wha–’ for a moment she thinks it’s trying to ram her but it screeches to a stop beside her.

  Pug, in the driver seat, motions for her to lower the window. She does.

  ‘Was it you?’ He stabs a finger at her.

  ‘
Was what me? What’s going on?’

  ‘The pigs are coming. Get out of here, now! I’ll deal with you later.’

  His Jeep lurches, and is followed by another, it’s a blur of tinted SUVs and then Olaf Gudmundsen’s dark blue Transporter. Gears crunch as he passes.

  She fumbles for her phone. Rings Van Doren.

  It connects.

  ‘Melody? You were supposed to tex–’

  ‘They’re all leaving! They know, they know! Get here, now!’

  Van Doren shouts, ‘All teams, Go, Go, Go!’

  Cars stream out of the warehouse. It’ll be too late. She turns the car around in a tight circle, the wheels whining. But why? To where? She stops the car and thumps the steering wheel.

  Lights and sirens appear. A police van, then another, followed by an unmarked car with the light on the dashboard. Detective Van Doren leaps out of the back and sprints past her Defender, heading for the warehouse and is back a few moments later.

  ‘What the fuck!’ Van Doren shouts. ‘What happened?’

  Melody holds her hand to her forehead, thinking. ‘Someone must have tipped them off. I don’t know how, but they knew!’

  ‘The snake handler! Did you see his van?’

  ‘Yes, yes, he was here. He went that way, they all did.’ She indicates the direction. ‘But–’

  Van Doren barks something into her radio and jumps back into the car. It takes off in a cloud of exhaust and Melody is left there, alone, once more.

  One fact cuts through all others with razor precision.

  Pug had found out about the sting, and blamed her for it.

  For that, there would be consequences.

  41

  Astrid

  It’s not lost. Not by a long stretch. The road block had been set up instantly, the patrol cars already in position at the two exits. Sure, the cage was a little wider than she’d have liked; but the convoy would soon find themselves trapped ahead and behind.

  Map spread out on her lap, radio buzzing with updates.

  ‘West exit: the convoy is approaching. At least a dozen cars. Over.’

  ‘Step on it, Collins.’

  ‘The front vehicle has a steel bumper. They don’t appear to be slowing down… I think…. Move, move, move!’

  ‘Shit,’ Smithes says from the front.

  ‘Report now! What’s happening?’

  Static, then a voice, background shouting, ‘They rammed us, shunted their way through, both patrol cars damaged. Over.’

  ‘Injuries? Over.’

  ‘None. Over.’

  ‘Small bloody mercies,’ Smithes growls from the front.

  Astrid squints between Collins and Smithes, straight ahead. Smoke in sodium light. Two police cars, twisted metal and battered body work, a third crumpled and facing the wrong way. The officers, dumbfounded, at the side of the road.

  ‘Keep going,’ Smithes says. ‘We need that van.’ The wheels crunch over debris and pixelated glass.

  She radios through to the east roadblock, disbands it, and orders them up to the main road, reading out a description of the Transporter with the registration Melody Kitteridge had provided at interview. It seemed Olaf Gudmundsen wasn’t using fake plates, but had altered the reg with rectangles of black tape.

  Collins shifts gear, traffic slows and eases to the hard shoulder, letting him slip past. He drives smooth, quick. The lights and siren give them an advantage.

  The radio crackles. East team confirm sighting of the van. ‘In pursuit, suspect heading east on A259.’

  ‘Yes,’ Smithes says, gripping the handle above the window, phone pressed against his ear. ‘Can you hear me? Yes, this is DCI Bill Smithes, EA194 requesting air support on A259 between Newhaven and Seaford.’

  Collins is making good progress. Up ahead Astrid can make out the blue lights and siren of the pursuit vehicles.

  Through the radio, an officer in the lead car narrates the turns and progress of the blue Transporter. She traces a finger along the map. Into Seaford or break off on a minor road to the north? Out in the darkness, squares of light funnel past; a train.

  ‘There aren’t any level-crossings ahead are there?’ Collins says, as the same thought arrives in her own mind.

  ‘The Seaford one was removed a few years back,’ Astrid says, consulting the map again. ‘Don’t think we’ll get that lucky.’

  They fall in behind the patrol cars, and as they round a bend, she spots the Transporter.

  ‘There he is.’ Adrenaline courses, rushing round her system.

  The thumping beat of rotor blades. A giant circle of light appears, dazzlingly bright, framing Gudmundson’s Transporter.

  ‘Give it up,’ Smithes mutters. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  The Transporter doesn’t stop. It never ceases to amaze her. In chase situations, each passing minute tips the odds further and further in their favour, and yet, too few give up to the inevitable. Delusional. Desperate.

  ‘Stinger?’ Collins asks.

  ‘I’ll see if we can set something up before Eastbourne. Let’s back off a little for now,’ Smithes says.

  ‘Ease off slightly, maintain distance. Examining tactical options. Standby.’ Astrid instructs into the radio. It’s a good call, all too easy for pursuit dogs to get hot-blooded in these situations and force a tragedy.

  Smithes is on the phone to the traffic control room when the Transporter veers to the right. Confirmation of it comes through on the radio, like a retrospective sat-nav.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ Collins mutters.

  ‘This goes back on to the A259 eventually. I don’t get it.’

  ‘He’s spooked, making stupid choices,’ Smithes says. ‘Won’t be long now.’

  He takes them along the beachfront road, right past the beach, the spotlight following. It makes no sense. ‘There is a minor way through at the end that cuts down to the golf course.’ They shoot past a squat fortification with a cannon on top, home to Seaford museum, then down a dirt road, bumping over potholes, then back on the asphalt on a residential road.

  ‘He’s lost it,’ Collins says, ‘he’s desperate.’

  They go down a short hill and turn onto a road that skirts the bottom of a golf course. Here, the van surprises them again, briefly ranging onto the other side of the road, then turning in a sharp arc, jumping the curb, and driving onto the course.

  The patrol car screeches to a halt,

  ‘Follow him!’ Smithes barks.

  There’s a hard jolt as the car climbs the curb at speed. Astrid’s teeth knock together at the impact.

  ‘Suspect is driving on…’ Astrid takes over the narration as the lead car, and briefly consults the map. ‘Seaford Head Golf Course.’

  ‘He’s tearing up the greens!’ Collins shouts. The red lights of the van ahead of them go out, but the helicopter has it. It shimmies right, left, and then turns back sharply to the right, losing the searchlight.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Suspect has switched off his lights.’

  ‘Can he get out of here? Does the course connect up to another road anywhere?’ she asks, her map no good now.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Collins says. ‘There might be an old droving track on the fifteenth from memory, but no way he can make it to the top of the cliff in that van.’

  ‘Could he be going for the sea? Drive himself off?’ Smithes asks.

  ‘There!’ Astrid points. Then into the radio, ‘Air support, follow the headlights of lead pursuit vehicle. We have eyes.’

  As their headlights swing round, the light catches a wheel suspended in the air, the van leaning on its side in a bunker.

  ‘Stop the car!’ Astrid shouts.

  The car skids to a halt in the muddy grass. She jumps out, torch in hand, already lit. She leaps onto the side of the van, shines a torch through the window, expecting to see a man slumped against the steering wheel.

  ‘Suspect not in the car,’ she sa
ys into the radio, and slides down the car and out of the bunker. ‘On foot. Request air support scan area to north of crash site. Get bodies out here searching, we might need the Dog Unit too.’ Maybe Smithes was right, and he’s heading for the clifftop.

  Her legs grind up the incline. She glances back. Torch heads sweep back and forth, more patrol cars drive up on the course.

  The wind whips in her ears, the helicopter’s blades echo across the sky. Her breath fogs. Despite the cold, she’s sweating under her body armour. She continues up the course, thighs burning with the gradient. Then it’s flat. A flag ripples and snaps in the stiff breeze. There’s a noise to her right, she swings the light.

  Heels running.

  ‘Stop! Police!’ she yells, then into her radio, ‘This is Van Doren, I have a visual, in pursuit. Signalling now.’ Running, she torch signals the helicopter. Her world lights up. It follows her as she runs.

  It’s him. She’s sure. Long hair. Jeans.

  She works her legs, cursing her body armour and jacket obstructing her running flow. She’s fitter, needs be, and her legs eat up the ground between them.

  Close. Close enough to hear his laboured breathing.

  She dives at his legs and wraps her arms around his ankles.

  He falls, planting a hand to steady himself, squirming a leg free. It smacks against her cheek, but she can feel no pain, just wet mud. She holds on to the other leg, twisting him down face first to the grass, she scrambles up with a knee in his back, and secures his arms behind his back.

  She’s breathing hard. He’s groaning and lost his fight. She brings his wrists together and secures them with plastic ties.

  ‘Suspect detained,’ she gasps into the radio, the spotlight still on her. She wrangles his wallet from his pocket. Olaf Gudmundson. Flashlights bob, nearing their position.

  She’s sweating beneath all her layers, but she doesn’t care. She has her man.