Dark Vet
Page 21
You can do this.
She swallows.
Heart pounding.
Sirens.
She stuffs the gun in the bag, uprights her bike. Fool! Probably just an ambulance passing, spooking her, but louder. Louder still. She climbs on, as two police cars appear, tyres screeching as they take the bend and skid to a halt metres from where she’s standing.
How did they know? She is frozen to the spot. Open-mouthed. An officer jumps out of the car and points at her. ‘Madam!’
‘I…’ she’s going to be sick.
‘Clear the area! Move!’ The officer yells. The officers knock on the door, only waiting five seconds before using a bright red battering ram. They hammer on the door. Whack. Whack. The door splinters. An officer kicks it open.
She cannot tear her eyes away.
‘Move, now!’
She pedals a metre or two. Loops around to watch from the other side of the road. The police swarm in.
They weren’t here for her.
They didn’t know what she was planning. It’s OK, it’s all OK.
The crackle of a car radio.
‘What’s going on?’ someone says at her side. A middle-aged woman with a border collie on a lead, pinching the top of a poo bag.
‘I’ve no idea. They battered the door down.’
‘Look!’
Pug is being marched forward by two officers, his hands behind his back. One puts a steadying hand on Pug’s bald head, easing him into the car.
‘I don’t understand why they do that. If they don’t know how to duck to get in a car then they deserve to bump their heads,’ the woman says.
‘Quite,’ Melody manages.
The dog walker is filming it on her phone.
The police car is unfeasibly small for Pug’s bulk, his jacket pressing against the window, like a black airbag had erupted inside.
Then their eyes meet.
He scowls. Then he mouths something for her to lipread.
You’re dead, bitch.
‘Do you think they’ll pay me anything for this? The Argus, I mean?’ The dog walker says.
But she can’t drag her eyes from the car.
‘To think they’ve finally got him.’
‘Him?’
‘Richie Sheridan. Are you not from around here? Tourist?’
‘That…’ she points to the car disappearing down the road, ‘that man…the bald one. Is Richie Sheridan?’
‘So you have heard of him. I’m going to call the news desk. Might get a few bob for this.’ She waggles the phone. ‘Toodle-oo.’
48
Four months prior to the
death of Martin Kitteridge
Sitting, bare-bottomed, on a sea urchin. Breaking her arm. Standing, pinned in by a dense crowd of jostling people. Shaving off all the hair on her head. Drinking a litre of apple cider vinegar in one go. Being robbed at gun or knife point. Getting slashed superficially by that knife. Having the scar anywhere but her face. These are all the things she would gladly accept if it meant she didn’t have to go on holiday with her in-laws.
But when Martin insists upon something.... He practically bundles her into the car and locks the doors, as if she still might make a break for it.
She tries the handle. Testing. Half-teasing.
‘Just stop this bullshit, Moody, seriously.’ He’s red-faced, exasperated.
He won’t have this cheap. He’s had to do all the packing – hers included – clean the house, and arrange the cover at Kitteridge’s.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She opens the window, lights a cigarette.
‘Not in the car, Moody, for fuck’s sake. You’ll make the upholstery stink.’
She chain-smokes the whole way to Newhaven, until her lungs feel like they’ve been through a meat grinder. Howard and Susan are on the same four-hour crossing but – heaven for small mercies – are at least in their own car for the drive down.
‘Where’s the vet of the year?’ Susan says, giving Martin a too-long squeeze. Then, ‘Melody,’ she inclines her head.
‘Susan. Howard. Anyone have any change for the cigarette machine?’
‘You’ve started smoking again? I thought…’ Susan says.
‘Don’t.’ Martin gives her a I’ve tried but she won’t listen look.
‘If you need me, I’ll be on deck, leaning precariously over the railings.’
When they berth in Dieppe, Martin asks if she’ll share the driving. In response she takes two five milligram tablets of Diazepam and reclines her seat as far as it’ll go.
‘Wake me when we get there.’
When she wakes, it’s dark. They are at the villa. A monosyllabic, bleary-eyed Martin carries in the cases. The air is warm and sweet with pine. Cicadas pulsate. Water gurgles in the pool filters.
While the rest of the party stumble to their beds, Melody is so well rested, she can’t possibly sleep. Instead she takes a midnight dip in the pool. The sub-surface lights create bright orbs of colour; a soothing Teal Touch by Dulux, deepening to a Regal Blue by Crown in the patches farthest from the lights. She easily swims a hundred or so lengths in the stubby pool, and it feels like enough exercise to offset the day’s travelling and sleeping. Then she lies on a sun lounger, letting the disturbed pool lap as it calms itself.
Headphones: she listens to a new mix that begins with “Message in a Bottle” by The Police. This is superb.
If she stays up all night and sleeps during the day she won’t have to talk or see anyone. The perfect holiday.
She rises, having missed lunch, and spends the afternoon trying to make a passable cocktail with Orangina. It isn’t possible.
Any thoughts of passing the entire holiday in this fashion are quickly dashed. Her presence, Martin informs her, is expected, particularly on the night of his parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary; the trip’s raison d’être.
On the day itself, they pack into Howard’s Range Rover and drive north to visit a vineyard; a picturesque chateau surrounded by a besieging army of rowed vines. Melody manages to keep an air of bonhomie by micro-dosing herself with Diazepam every three hours. After being shown the swollen grapes outside, they and a group of six Germans are dragged through the process of wine creation. She doesn’t care about the temperature, when it moves from the enormous stainless-steel urn to the barrels, or how they’re coopered or what wood they’re made from. Alchemy be damned, she was here for the gold.
Finally. Wine tasting. It’s such a relief to have the glass in her hand. While the sommelier witters on about tasting notes, she downs hers. It is a crisp, cold white. The warm weather, her dry thirst, and her relief at the tour being over, all help the different vintages slip down her neck. Howard is ruddy-cheeked and suitably impressed enough to buy three cases of the wine.
‘That’ll do us for the rest of the week,’ he possibly jokes.
In the evening, Martin mans the barbecue. Her offering: a warm goats cheese salad with caramelised onion dressing. Her mother-in-law must be feeling a little misty-eyed about her anniversary because she compliments her on the salad.
All in all, Melody feels a small sense of achievement. No arguments. A magic combination of medication, night owling, and drifting through the social engagements produce a passable time.
The sun browns her skin pleasingly. They lunch on delicious bread and cheese, one day she picks a pomegranate from a tree. The seeds are a bright Volcanic Red by Dulux but it lacks any sweetness or flavour.
One day they venture out to Aix-en-Provence, amble the hot streets and all four of them drink strong brown beer at a street café; Susan flaps herself cool with a tourist map, Howard and Martin discuss the strange fizziness to the beer while she checks the Kitteridge Practice inbox. Earlier in the week she’d hoped for some disaster that would drag them home, but as the finish line nears, it is more out of boredom that she checks. All is under control.
Friday, the last full day.
Martin and Howard have walked into the village to the boulangerie, she is having a smoke and a coffee by the pool, contemplating a swim, when Susan appears from nowhere, like the angel of death.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘It’s a free country.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’ve been in that dress all week, would you like to borrow one of mine?’
Susan has never been so kind to her in her life. Something is up. ‘The Vet of the Year did the packing. Not Packer of the Year, unfortunately.’
Susan gives a thin smile. ‘It’s been a nice holiday, hasn’t it? You’ve enjoyed it, I hope?’
She’s suspicious, lowers her sunglasses, sucks in her lips, and goes for the truth. ‘I wasn’t looking forward to it. But I’ve not hated it.’
Susan scoffs. Or laughs. ‘We all wanted you to be comfortable.’
‘Why, exactly?’
‘After your news. You probably don’t realise it Melody, but you’ve been grieving your faulty womb.’
Faulty womb? She pushes the sunglasses back up her nose. So, Martin’s told you. Things suddenly make sense; Martin’s unnatural acquiescence, the lack of conflict, the easy atmosphere. They’ve been tiptoeing around her.
‘It’s raw, for you, for Martin, even for us. We’ve wanted a grandchild for years. And Andrea… Let’s just say, Martin was our main hope.’
Martin’s sister’s sexuality was always talked about in euphemisms. She’s living with a friend or, Melody’s favourite, her female companion. Martin had told her the truth: Andrea was ensconced in Melbourne, happy with some singer/songwriter, away from her toxic mother. Good for her.
‘Disappointment all round then,’ Melody says.
Susan moves her head from side to side as if to say maybe, maybe not.
‘Could you imagine coming here every year, and having a little one running around, leaping into the pool in armbands?’
‘Not really, no. It’s not the sort of thing an infertile person would imagine, Susan.’
She sips her coffee, it’s cold, bitter, creamy, and just enough to leave her wanting another.
Susan’s eyes narrow in thought. ‘Have you spoken to Martin about adoption?’
Melody pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘Good God.’
‘Have you?’ Susan presses.
‘No.’
‘Look, I know this is hard, it must be particularly difficult for you given…’
‘Given what?’
‘You want me to speak frankly? You didn’t know your biological parents and were passed from pillar to post as a child. It’s no surprise you’re reticent about being a mother, but what you don’t seem to realise, Melody, is that you are in a different situation now! You have a stable, loving husband, a good life. Willing grandparents to help out. A child, your child, wouldn’t have the upbringing you had.’
‘But adoption?’
‘Is it the biological connection? I understand you might have some misgivings…’
‘Susan, just don’t.’
‘But where do you stand on surrogacy, Melody? I have some literature to share with you.’
‘Where do I stand on surrogacy? On its windpipe until it stops twitching, Susan! I suppose I should be grateful you left it until the end before ambushing me.’
She holds her hands up. ‘Ambush? Melody! Calm down, please.’
Melody’s on her feet, fuming, fumbling with her cigarette packet.
‘It’s no wonder you don’t function properly when you poison yourself!’
She lights up, blows smoke in Susan’s direction. Susan waves at it, and fake coughs.
‘You know, Martin deserves the chance to be a father. I think you’re being very selfish.’
‘And what about what I want? Where does that fit into your little masterplan?’
‘It would make you both happy. I’ve been a mother, I know things that you possibly couldn’t until you’ve held your own baby in your arms.’
‘Why does everyone assume I want a fucking child? Has anybody ever thought to actually ask?’
Susan looks genuinely perplexed. ‘But it’s the life-giving nature of our sex as women, as carers, as nurturers.’
Melody shoots her the most venomous look she can muster, barges past her, and into the villa. She chucks her toiletries into her wash bag, packs her clothes and shoes into her suitcase. She takes the car keys. Martin will have to sit between the cases of Chateau de Seuil and suffer the company of his parents for nine hours.
For her, the peace of the open French roads, her music, and best of all, those disgusting people in her rear-view mirror.
49
Astrid
On their way to the interview room, Smithes pulls her aside.
‘A moment.’
‘Sir?’
He keeps his voice low. ‘Just so you’re aware of the bigger picture. The fraud squad has just moved on Sheridan, arrested him.’
‘Without consulting us?
‘That’s right.’
‘For God’s sake Bill, what were they thinking?’
‘Power play.’
‘But what if Gudmundson gives us Sheridan as the murderer? I know we like Spellerman for it more, but it’s still on the table.’
‘Then we just stack the charge on him.’
She sees it now. ‘But Fraud get the collar. Their timing with the arrest is… interesting… to say the least.’
Smithes gives her a rueful smile. ‘Perhaps I was too open about my hopes for this interview with Gudmundson. Everyone wants to be Burrow’s golden one.’
‘Did they find anything in his house relevant to our investigation?’
‘Too early to say. I’ve sent Hussain to liaise with their team.’
‘Right.’
He rests a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s just do our thing, Astrid. Karma will take care of the rest.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘It bloody better.’
Tabitha Matheson looks pretty pleased with herself, the ghost of a smile on her face which Astrid feels the need to check.
‘The deal is contingent, your man’s not out of the woods yet.’ Pleasingly, the lawyer’s smile shrinks a little.
Smithes glances at the clock, states the time, date, and all the necessary preliminaries.
Olaf Gudmundson is still, eyes watchful behind his circular glasses.
Astrid takes out enlarged photos and places them in a line in front of Gudmundson. Melody Kitteridge, Kathy Spellerman, Lydia Gregorivic, Richie Sheridan, and Austin Pemberton.
‘Mr Gudmundson. Have you ever supplied snakes to any of these people?’
‘If I tell you about this how soon will I be able to leave the country?’
Astrid flashes Smithes a look. Interesting.
‘Not until after trial, if there is one. Your deal is contingent on that, Olaf.’ Smithes says.
‘If your concern is for your wellbeing, there are safeguarding options.’
Olaf swallows and rests a finger on the bald leering face of Richie Sheridan. ‘I supplied him plenty of snakes over the last eighteen months, for Richie’s gambling events.’
‘Did you ever supply him with a cobra?’
‘Yes,’ he pushes his glasses further up his nose. ‘Richie had this idea of having a cobra versus a mongoose battle.’
‘When was this?’ Smithes says.
‘September, I think.’
Astrid frowns. The timeline didn’t fit. ‘Did Mr Sheridan keep the snake? Look after it at all?’
‘Never. I supplied the snake for the event, yes, but I took it back at the end of the night.’
She rubs her forehead. This is not going how she hoped. ‘Did he ever borrow the snake again? Or use it?’
‘Sheridan didn’t, no.’
She leans forward. ‘But someone else did?’
‘Yes, in late November, I think. A private buyer. Cash. She fell in love with it at firs
t sight, I knew she would look after it. Knew what she was doing, when she looked at some of my other snakes, she clearly had some handling experience.’ He shrugs. ‘A good home with a caring owner, cash buyer. It’s more than I could hope for.’
‘She? Can you identify that woman in these photographs?’ She watches his expression closely.
Olaf Gudmundson scans each photo thoroughly, then nods.
‘Yes. This one.’ He rests a finger on one of the photographs. ‘I don’t remember her name but I am positive it was her.’
Her. Astrid swallows, trying to get some moisture in her mouth, then confirms the identity for the video.
‘This is it, Astrid. But keep this between us for now. Tight circle. I don’t want the press getting wind of this yet. She on her way in yet?’ Smithes is striding down the corridor like a tiger.
Astrid looks at her phone. ‘Sir… we are struggling to locate her.’
‘Find her. Fast.’
‘Am on it, sir.’
Gardner pops her head out of the Windbourne room. ‘Sir? Ma’am? A moment? It’s urgent.’
They join her inside.
Gardner tucks her dirty blonde hair behind an ear. ‘Following up on the Spellerman alibi. It seems Lydia Gregorivic got a traffic ticket in Worthing on the night of the murder.’
It takes her a moment. ‘Have you–’
‘Yes. I’ve checked the CCTV.’ She brings the footage up. The time reads 7:07 p.m. ‘Lydia Gregorivic arrives, finds half a space, but half her car is covering a double yellow. Hence the ticket. Video suggests she’s on her own.’ Gardner switches cameras and Lydia strides into the Dome cinema. ‘I checked the schedule and there was a romcom on. She comes out after nine, consistent with the film’s run-time.’
‘Great work!’ Smithes says. ‘This proves that Spellerman wasn’t with Gregorivic. They both lied. The question is, why?’
Astrid bites a lip. ‘Sir, I think we might need to go to the mobile carriers to help us locate Spellerman.’
‘Agreed. Collins?’