by CJ Hannon
Melody doesn’t quite laugh, but lets out a little puff through her nostrils. ‘As long as you don’t try and hug me and tell me how sorry you are, you’re welcome here.’
‘I appreciate that. Hopefully you won’t be seeing too much more of me. I think we’re getting close. Olaf Gudmundson’s ready to co-operate.’
‘And give up Richie Sheridan? I hope you have a good witness protection programme.’
She considers confiding in this young detective, about her fears for herself. It is tempting. She is earnest, would try and help.
‘Detective, I’m…’ Out to sea, the waves are rough. A Jeep is stopped on the road, its engine running.
‘What is it?’
‘That Jeep,’ she murmurs, and the window lowers, a beefy arm leans out. Then she sees the bald head.
Van Doren leaps up, and is reaching into her pocket, for a gun? No, her identification.
The tinted window rises up. Tyres squeal, and the Jeep takes off.
Van Doren gives her a quizzical look. ‘Was that him? Is he stalking you?’
Melody grinds the cigarette out with her heel. ‘I need to go back inside.’
No, being wrapped in a blanket of protection would only stymie her own ability to act.
Her phone beeps. Unknown number.
Like a piggy led to the slaughter
It’s dark. Melody requisitions the Micra for a second night of surveillance, armed with a Thermos of coffee this time.
Her parking spot isn’t as good as the night before, but she can still see her house. The estate agent must have switched off the bedroom light because the whole house is in darkness. Melody has one headphone in, eighties synth pop keeping her company in the long hours of cold and dark. She sips coffee, heart jumping at each car that passes down the road. At one in the morning she has to pee.
Reluctant to go back, Melody gets out and crouches behind the Micra. The air is bitterly cold on her buttocks, the first brushes of frost gather on the windows of the adjacent car. This is what she’s been reduced to. Baring her behind to the tarmac in the early hours of the morning.
Relieved, she returns to her stakeout spot, pours another coffee and continues her vigil. She will return every night if she has to.
A little before three in the morning, she senses, then hears the low rumble of the engine. She resists the temptation to clear the condensation from the window. The smudged light passes, first white, then red, and halts, stopping outside her house.
Her heart rate quickens.
It’s them.
The clip of doors opening, the engine still running.
She can’t bear it. She wipes a streak in the window.
Pug. The swarthy one is with him too, jemmying the front door with a crow bar, while Pug watches the street.
They enter.
She softly opens the door of the Micra and runs at a crouch, scampering to the Jeep. She lies on her back and pushes herself half under the car. Dampness, oil, exhaust. The car continues to judder above her, she fishes in her pocket for the device. The underbelly of the car is too dark, all black tubes, metal and unknown shapes. The torchlight on her phone?
Voices.
Footsteps.
She scrambles fully under the Jeep, lying flat on her back with the wheels on either side and holds her breath.
‘…a runner or what?’
‘That bitch’ll be back. And I’m going to gut–’ Pug’s voice is cut off by the door slamming shut.
Melody thrusts the device up. Stick! To something! It drops and rolls onto the tarmac. Her icy fingers spider walk, searching the ground. There! The pitch of the engine changes. And she thrusts the device up. The magnet connects. The chassis passes inches from her nose.
Sky.
Stars.
The fog of a long-held breath finally released, rising to meet them.
She doesn’t move. Not until the engine is out of earshot.
Slowly, she gets up, brushes down her coat. The neighbours’ windows are all opaque with curtains and blinds.
In the Micra she huddles over her phone. The red dot shows the Jeep heading west.
‘Gotcha,’ she says.
46
Astrid
Collins is waiting for her outside the boxy Magistrates court in Brighton, which is all concrete and rectangular windows. She’d pointed it out to Jenna once, who’d declared it ‘Brutalism colliding with Cubism’. Functional, she’d replied, a little protectively.
She’s been here plenty, particularly earlier in her career. Nowadays, the heightened seriousness of her work means that when she is summoned, it is normally to Lewes court, where the so called ‘First Class’ cases are held. Today is an exception. A throwback. An aggravated assault she’d closed four months previously.
‘Didn’t expect to see you here?’
Collins checks his watch. ‘Smithes has called an urgent meeting. Sent me to get you.’
Astrid gets in the passenger seat, belts up, and fires off a message to the patrolman who had given her a lift in, and was due to give testimony himself shortly. As lead investigator in the case, she had taken the stand for the prosecution, and been cross-examined by the defence. She was sure they had the right man, but the grainy CCTV footage and inconsistent witness testimonies were making it hard work for the prosecutor. Mostly, for her it had been a lot of waiting, then going over the facts on the stand. All a little diminutive compared to what she had been dealing with recently. But she owed it to the injured lad and his family to be on her game, and she’d done her job.
‘So, what’s the fire? I heard legal are really short right now, and heel-dragging on everything to make a point. Is there a problem with getting the deal together for Gudmundson?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Last I heard, we should have something this afternoon. Actually, I didn’t just come here to get you. We had to get a magistrate to sign off the extension on holding Gudmundson.’
‘I doubt that was a hard sell. Last time we tried to bring him in, we needed three cars and a helicopter.’
‘Yeah, piece of piss.’
She checks her messages again to see if there’s anything from Smithes. ‘So, what’s the urgent meeting about? You know anything?’
‘They’re keeping it pretty tight, but Horley looks like he might be about to burst. My bet is he found something.’
‘Horley? I had him manually going through years of e-mails between MK and Spellerman… but then it was all hands on deck to prepare for the op.’
‘Maybe he’s finally found something?’
‘Maybe.’
Ten minutes later and they’re at Sussex House and in MI Room 2. Everyone’s present.
‘Settle down,’ Smithes says, cutting the low murmur of chatter. ‘Let’s get started.’
The morning in court has numbed her brain and she’s ready to dive back in.
‘A few things to update you on. First, we’re putting together a legal agreement for Olaf Gudmundson in return for his co-operation. He’s in the clear for the murder itself, but we believe he did supply the snake, for cash. We’ve also had a couple of breakthroughs. Gardner?’
Gardner snaps to attention. ‘Sir. I went through the information Mrs Kitteridge had compiled. Mostly useless conjecture and information we already had… but there was one thing.’
A newspaper clipping appears on the screen, showing Martin Kitteridge and Kathy Spellerman holding snakes up with smiles on their faces.
Astrid purses her lips, trying to skim-read the article.
‘This was in the Argus, seven years ago,’ Smithes says, ‘It contradicts the idea that MK had no connection with snakes. The girl in the picture is Kathy Spellerman. We’ve received a tip-off that these two were having an affair. Keep this image at the back of your minds a moment.’
Smithes pauses. There’s quiet but for the faint buzz of the coffee machine outside. What’s he’s got? Something good to be takin
g centre stage.
‘Officer Horley? Come up here.’
Horley pushes his glasses up his nose and shuffles to the front, taking the clicker from Smithes.
‘Sir. I conducted a read through of correspondence between MK and Spellerman.’ Horley talks to a space in the distance, clearly nervous. ‘And I’ve compiled the following e-mail exchanges. All originated from the same two IP addresses between MK and Kathy Spellerman. All were sent over the same network identifier.’
‘Meaning?’ Smithes prompts, for the benefit of the room.
‘They were e-mailing each other from within the Kitteridge Practice. The messages were technically in the trash, but backed up on a cloud server. I managed to–’
‘Horley. Please just show us,’ Astrid says.
‘Yes, right, of course.’ Horley clicks, and the screen lights up with a mail. What strikes her at first is the sparseness, the lack of text.
M. Kitteridge.
Subject: That thing
To: KMS
Need to see you.
Tonight?
M. Kitteridge.
Subject: Re: That thing
From: KMS
Yes!!
Then at the bottom, there is an emoji of a hooded snake.
‘Holy shit,’ Astrid says when she sees the sign off, then covers her mouth, realising she’d said it aloud.
‘Why didn’t we catch this before on the initial scan?’ someone asks.
Horley rubs at the back of his head. ‘He had over thirty-two thousand e-mails archived. We were keyword searching the official list, it doesn’t look for emojis… we didn’t ask it to. It was only when DI Van Doren got me to do a manual read-through that we caught it.’
Smithes gives her a nod that seems to say, good work. Horley clicks on.
‘The messages stretch back nearly three years. They tend to be short, logistical in nature. They fall into two camps. The planned ones, i.e. let’s meet tonight at eight, or tomorrow at seven. Or, more commonly, they are spontaneous.’ He clicks on, showing examples. ‘Like this one which simply reads: ‘Now?’ Sixty-eight percent of the exchanges fall into this category.’
‘Have you done us a nice 3D pie chart to show us the split? Opportunist screws and planned nooky,’ Hussain says, earning a laugh from a few of the team and a scowl from Smithes. ‘No disrespect meant, this is good stuff, man.’
But Astrid is thinking. ‘These spontaneous messages? Horley, have you done any timestamp analysis?’
‘I have. Almost all were sent between 4 p.m. and 7:30 p.m., every day of the week except Sunday.’
‘The only day Kitteridge’s is closed,’ Gardner says.
‘There was an increase in frequency both years between January and March.’
‘Very clever,’ Astrid says.
‘An insight to share, guv?’ Horley says.
‘Cross-reference the times of the messages with Melody Kitteridge’s call-out logs from the vet practice.’ She feels a room of eyes on her. ‘It’s lambing and calving season. Melody is the call-out vet and that’s her busiest time of year. I’d bet anyone here a three-course dinner that Martin and Kathy snuck away when Melody was on call-outs.’
Nobody takes the bet.
‘Do any of these messages indicate where they meet? It must be somewhere close, right?’
‘Nowhere specific,’ Horley confirms. ‘This is the only message which hints at a place. From Spellerman to MK,’ Horley clicks on. Astrid looks at the date.
Her mouth is dry.
The date is the day of Martin’s death.
10 Jan
I’ll be waiting for you after work. Come up.
Please, please come.
‘Come up?’ Astrid asks. ‘Up where? And the begging? Why the change in tone?’
‘The tenor, if you can call it that, changed five weeks before MK’s murder. It’s her, asking to see him. Him refusing.’
‘This is excellent work, Horley.’ Smithes assumes the floor once more. ‘I’ve sent out a patrol car to bring her in. Questions? Ideas on next steps.’
Astrid’s eyes wander over to the board. SNAKE AS SYMBOL. A new admiration for Uzoma burrows into her chest. She speaks up. ‘Kathy Spellerman has a shaky alibi, that final e-mail suggests she wasn’t with Lydia Gregorivic at all. She’s covering for Spellerman, we just need to prove it.’
Gardner raises a hand. ‘I’ll see if I can dig anything up.’
‘We may need to grill them both separately in interview on the alibi, look for inconsistencies in timings and details to see if they trip up.’
Smithes hums, considering. ‘No. Not yet. We’ve already got enough interviews to conduct for now. Let Gardner do her thing. If we don’t get any joy, then we’ll bring Gregorivic in later, kick the tyres on the alibi.’
‘Sir,’ she says, in acknowledgement of this little reminder that this was his show, not hers.
He claps his hands together. ‘Good. Now, let’s get to work.’
Gardner lingers. She tucks a strand of hair behind an ear.
‘Sounds like we’re getting close.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘When this is over, think we’ll go out for a drink or something?’
Astrid plays it safe. ‘I can’t think about it right now, not with all this going on.’
‘Right, of course.’
She shakes her head, ‘But yeah, we’ll all do something sure. Get the team together, blow off a little steam.’
‘Right,’ Gardner nods. ‘The team. Sounds good.’
‘Let me know if you dig up anything on that alibi.’
‘Will do, ma’am.’
47
Melody
Melody cycling.
The path runs alongside Hove Lawns. It’s been years since she’s been on a bike. Now she recalls why. Bloody hard going. The unforgiving wind leans against her. It is as if she is on an exercise bike, pedalling for all she wants yet remaining stationary. Quicker cyclists on quicker bikes slip past her. Each a little insult. The pannier bag adds a lot of weight. That must be it; she isn’t unfit.
The bright side: tailwind on the way back. The helmet, the sunglasses, offer anonymity. Best of all, no number plate.
Under the whipping wind she picks out the jaunty opening of “The Power of Love” by Huey Lewis & the News. She brakes, pulls the bike onto the grass, letting the other cyclists and electric scooters pass unhindered.
‘Yes?’ she says, shoving the phone underneath her helmet.
‘Melody. It’s me. Susan.’
‘I know. Your name comes up on the screen when you call me.’
‘I dread to think what name you’ve put in.’
‘Bitch-face Susan, if you must know.’ In the gaps between beach huts, columns of sea churn like reacting test tubes.
‘Charming as ever!’ There’s a pause, some muttering at the other end. ‘Look, the estate agent called. We’ve had an offer on the house.’
‘How much?’
‘A million and a half.’ Mathematics. After paying off her share of the mortgage, she’ll be left with nearly two hundred and eighty grand.
‘I accept.’ She hangs up.
She could have paid off Sheridan after all, but they were beyond that now.
She refers to the tracking app. It shows Pug’s Jeep is still in the location where it had been overnight. Another ten minutes in the saddle and she’ll be there. She zips her phone back into the strap across her chest, checks that the path is clear, and leans her weight into the pedals, urging the bike forward into the wind once more.
The red dot blinks. Here? Smooth white walls curve. Well above head height, no getting over that without a ladder. Two security cameras cover the door and every angle. It is an odd location for a house, sandwiched as it is between Hove lagoon and the power station. Luxury seafront living, just within the postcode magic of Hove and yet… The high fences and nearby bunker yards give it an
industrial air. Opulent and rough at the same time. Power station chic.
The set-up is discouraging. Stealth would be required, more than she possesses. The front door, then. Still, it wouldn’t do to be recorded on camera. She leans the bike against the wall on the other side of the road, out of the camera’s periphery. In her pannier, Melody rummages around, finding a bottle of Evian, still slightly chilled. The trickle of it down her throat is divine.
Next, she retrieves a tub of Vaseline and a cloth. She wraps a scarf around her like a Bedouin, and on tiptoes, smears the jelly liberally over the camera lenses.
She experiences a moment of doubt. Crushes it. She recalls Pug as a boy shaking out a tea towel full of shattered glass for the cat. The kittens. Then Cleopatra. The snakes, the dog-fighting, the violence she witnessed at Plum Tree Farm. No. These people know no other language than violence. She’s tried, hasn’t she, to do it the right way? And now they are after her. It was strike, or get struck.
A lorry passes. Then a moment later, a dusty white van. Clear. She removes the tranquilliser gun from the top of the pannier. Loads it with a pre-pressurised dart. The feathery stabiliser is a bright pink Fuchsia Lily by Dulux. Pretty but conspicuous.
A car approaches and she hides the gun, squeezes the back tyre as if testing the pressure.
She waits. Pedestrians in the distance, a group of four cyclists pass, a dog walker. A break will come. She is patient, tries to visualise it.
When he answers the door, she will shoot and bundle him backwards. The element of surprise will be on her side. It would take a few crucial seconds for the ketamine to take effect. She could hold out a few seconds, couldn’t she? But what if there was someone in there with him?
The gun is single fire, but she could quickly load it with another dart. She readies two more darts, pockets them. Then, for a precious moment, all is quiet. She puts the pannier bag over her arm, the gun concealed between the bags, finger ready on the trigger. Back pressed against the wall.