by CJ Hannon
It’s a simple apartment, with a sloping roof; lounge, diner, and kitchen all in the same room. A bathroom. A double bedroom.
‘It’s in here,’ someone calls.
‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ Astrid says. ‘She just seems so…. meek?’
‘It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. Now would you look at that.’
Astrid takes in the cheap, wood-framed, neatly made, double bed, and a chest of drawers on which the snake tank sits. The plug hangs down, the tank is dark, empty. A bed of bark, an imitation branch.
‘Spellerman conveniently forgot to mention this.’
Astrid cocks her head to one side imagining a snake in there. ‘Maybe they liked doing it in front of snakes?’
‘I’ve heard of weirder things.’
She exhales, every surface covered in forensic dust. ‘This was the perfect place to keep it.’
Smithes grunts, rests a hand on her shoulder. ‘You did well, Van Doren. The CPS are swimming in evidence; Olaf’s testimony, the pathologist’s report, the bloody tank right in front of our eyes. A jilted lover with a cobra tattooed on her body. I hope for her sake that Barber’s a half-decent lawyer.’
‘I actually feel sorry for her. Just a mixed-up girl.’
‘Have you seen the tabloids?
‘Sex, snakes and murder. Hope she can tough it out.’ She means it too. Kathy Spellerman will be a high suicide risk wherever she’s held. She’d probably get life, but that didn’t actually mean life. No previous, the psychological scarring of her affair and abortion could all be taken into account. With good behaviour, she could be out by her mid-forties. A lot still to live for. To hope for.
She taps her gloved finger on the glass of the empty tank.
‘Funny that Spellerman still won’t tell us what she did with it. Even after everything,’ Smithes says. ‘She must have an almost spiritual connection to it, to protect it so.’
‘I wonder where the snake is right now? What is it seeing?’
54
Melody
Melody dangles the thawed mouse down through the small hatch at the top of the tank. Drops it onto chips of bark.
The cobra watches. Doesn’t move for its prey.
‘When’s he coming?’ Ally asks. ‘It’s been here too long already.’
The shed at the end of Ally’s tiny garden is stacked with folded patio furniture, a broken strimmer, and rigged up with heaters.
‘Soon. You know I drove past the practice on the way here. Police and forensics were up in the flat. They’d have found the tank by now.’
‘I still don’t’ see why you had to do that. It just seemed like too much of a risk, Mel.’
‘You’ll see. Everything has its purpose.’ She closes the hatch, wipes her hands on her jeans. ‘Will you come with me to see the flat later? Think it’s the one.’
There’s a double rap on the doorframe, and Olaf comes wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a large cardboard box in his hands.
‘Did you check you weren’t followed?’ Ally asks.
‘Of course. I’m not an idiot.’ He puts the box on the floor and opens the flaps. It’s empty and easily big enough to house the tank for transportation to his van.
Melody hands him the envelope. He glances inside.
‘Count it if you like.’
He pockets it. ‘No need.’
She understands. He’s the only one who could ruin her. She wouldn’t short-change him.
‘When are you off?’ Ally nibbles on a nail.
‘I get my passport back after the trial. Then I’m gone for good.’
‘Any news on Sheridan?’ Melody asks.
‘Looks like he’ll get some time but I’m not hanging around to find out. Are you going to be at the girl’s trial?’
‘Of course,’ Melody says.
Olaf wrings his hands. ‘And you’re sure she’ll be cleared?’
Ally raises an eyebrow. ‘As long as nobody is looking our way, I’m not sure it matters.’
‘Of course it does, Al!’ she reprimands. ‘Her trial is punishment enough. And if Kathy’s barrister is moderately competent, she’ll walk.’
Olaf unplugs the tank. ‘I don’t like it. That poor girl.’
‘She’ll go free. Just you watch.’
Olaf grunts. ‘You want to say goodbye?’
Melody crouches, presses her nose to the glass.
The cobra darts, lightning-fast, and takes the mouse in its jaws, its mouth stretched and rubbery.
Deadly.
The sea is a teal Air Force Blue by Little Greene, the sky a lighter Baby Blue by Dulux. It’s a view she could get used to. Above, dense formations of lenticular clouds, mottled like giant blister packs of white tablets.
‘What do you think, then?’
Ally leans on the sink and gazes out. ‘Wow. I mean, this is the view from the kitchen, the kitchen!’
‘Have you stepped out onto the balcony?’ The estate agent says, teeth gleaming in a perfect smile and she opens the lock, slides the door back.
A blast of briny air envelops her, a cold kiss. Melody leans on the railings. Pots of soggy soil and dead foliage. ‘Bless them. That was optimistic. Growing anything in the salt air is a waste of effort.’
‘Plastic plants are the way to go, they really can be rather good these days, you can’t tell the difference.’ the estate agent says, and reads the look of distaste on her face. ‘Are you moving in together?’
‘No, I’m just a friendly second opinion.’ Ally says. ‘But I’d be tempted to leave the husband and kids for this view! You know, I can really see you living here, Mel.’
The pier is to her east, the i360 viewing platform like a round donut being threaded on a stick. To the west is Shoreham Harbour, the power station. Straight ahead; a seemingly limitless horizon. Uncluttered. Perfect.
‘I’ll take it, on one condition.’
The estate agent stifles a smile at what must be an easy commission. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’d like to redecorate the whole place. I’ll do it myself, pay for the paint.’
‘Let’s see…’ She consults her clipboard, ‘It was redecorated throughout in magnolia when the last tenant moved out. You can almost smell the paint, it’s that fresh.’
Melody shakes her head. ‘Magnolia. Well, you go and tell Mr and Mrs Bland that it will look one hundred times better once I’m through.’
‘Sorry,’ Ally says to the estate agent, and Melody smacks her friend lightly on the arm.
‘Don’t you dare apologise. It’s the owners who should be apologising to us. It’s a crime to ruin such a beautiful apartment with magnolia.’
‘I’ll ask.’ The estate agent flashes a tight smile. ‘And be sure to let you know.’
55
Astrid
‘DI Van Doren. Detective Inspector Astrid Van Doren.’ She puts the warrant card down on the dresser and stares at herself in the mirror. Applies bright red lipstick to a mouth that feels incapable of smiling again. Daubs black mascara to lashes that surround pained eyes. She could always just go for one or two, feign a headache, come home.
The Globe is packed, but some of the team must have been here a while already because they’ve got a table and it’s covered in half-drunk beer bottles, vodka-mixers, and empties.
‘Wahey! Here she is!’ Collins yells, and they all stand, offering handshakes, hugs and congratulations.
‘What are you having?’ Hussain asks, removing his wallet from his pocket.
‘Heineken. Cheers.’ She looks around. ‘Smithes not here yet?’
Astrid sits, chats, drinks, as they relive the case blow by blow and for the moment, she can push Jenna somewhere further into the back of her mind.
‘So, how does it feel to be the youngest female DI in Sussex Police?’ Gardner asks. Sarah looks pretty tonight. A low-cut top with a butterfly motif, hair straightened and shiny.
‘U
nworthy? I’m just pleased we got a result.’
Gardner lowers her voice, leans in and Astrid catches a whiff of a little too much vanilla perfume. ‘You know, everyone knows it was you who drove this. Bill… he’s a lovely man, but he’s a bit useless, isn’t he? Without you we’d have never gotten there.’
Astrid flushes. ‘You can’t say things like that, Sarah.’ And she wonders if it’s true. ‘Bill’s an enabler… not an autocrat. He gives us room to flourish. We’re lucky. There’s not another SIO like him.’
Sarah gives her a knowing grin. ‘I see. Loyal. But without you, his star…’ She mimes something rising in the air then crashing into the table.
‘Drink? I’m sure it’s my round.’
Smithes puts in an appearance, typically while she happens to be at the bar.
‘Congratulations, Astrid.’ He raises his half-pint. He must be driving.
‘You too, sir.’
‘We’re in a pub. Bill is fine.’ He pulls at his lapels. ‘Officially DCI now. How about that? Both of us together, Astrid. Quite the team.’
‘Entangled fates,’ she says, meaning it as a joke, but it just sounds weird.
‘Good to show the face, but it doesn’t do to over fraternise. Now you, you can still just about get away with it. Not for too much longer the way things are going, enjoy it while you can.’
She gives him a weak smile. ‘I’ll do my best, sir. Bill, sorry.’
He rests a hand on top of her own. ‘You know. Sandy would be very proud of you.’
She nods, but Bill doesn’t have the right to say such things.
The best venues in Brighton are gay clubs, but she can’t persuade them to give it a go. They end up on West Street with the stag dos, bad music, testosterone and sticky carpets. Van Doren hovers at the bar, swigging a beer. Music pounds. Awful, with a heavy beat. Horley is on the dance floor, dancing a pretty good Robot.
‘Come on!’ Hussain yells, beckoning her over, but she isn’t drunk enough to dance.
‘Hey,’ Gardner takes her hand. ‘Come with me.’
‘No, really,’ she protests, ‘I really don’t want to dance.’
But Gardner doesn’t lead her to the dance floor but to a quiet spot and eases her back against the wall, and presses lips onto her.
For a moment she doesn’t respond and Gardner separates. ‘Is this okay?’
Yes. No. Does it matter anymore? She strokes Sarah’s hair, then pulls her in, lips soft and wet.
‘Oh! That is so hot! Look Dal, look!’
Astrid cocks her head to one side to see an audience of leering boys.
‘Fancy a threesome, love?’
‘Idiots.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Gardner says.
Instinctively she doesn’t offer to go to her marina flat. They go back to Gardner’s, a block in Furze Hill. They paw at each other in the lift on the way up. She pulls up Sarah’s top, kisses her tits, takes a nipple in her mouth, flicks it with her tongue. Hard as a bullet.
Astrid thrusts her hand down and slides in the tip of her finger. It’s wet and hot. Sarah eases herself down deeper to the hilt and lets out a muffled: ‘Fuck.’
The lift dings. They freeze. The doors part. Nobody there.
Sarah giggles, grabs her by the hand and pulls her out.
Astrid wakes early. Mouth tasting dry and horrible. Sarah’s hair is fanned across the pillow. The swell of her naked breasts under the sheet. Feel something. But it isn’t Jenna.
She dresses quietly, zips up her boots and eases the front door closed behind her. She’ll explain. Later.
She can’t bear the thought of her flat. Astrid pulls her leather jacket across tight for warmth, and heads for her mother’s house.
56
Melody
It’s a crisp, late spring day. Lewes Crown Court is a film set; grey stone facade, steps, and corpulent pillars. The bombast of justice. Press corps, a small army of them, swarm, encircling her.
Do you think she did it, Melody?
What sentence are you hoping for?
How do you feel about Kathy Spellerman now?
Did you know about the kinky sex games, Melody?
Nothing to say. Shades to hide behind.
Inside, she puts her sunglasses on top of her head. Scours. Ally is mid-call. Her friend has been here for the first day of the trial and is here now, on what could possibly be the final day of it. While Ally has topped and tailed it, she’s stayed the course. A stoic presence in the audience.
A sip of water from her bottle. A nibble on a cereal bar while she waits for Ally to finish.
Howard and Susan are huddled together in a corner, absorbed in conversation or perhaps pretending they haven’t seen her.
Kathy’s mother is in a whispered huddle with their lawyer, hands clawing nervously at each other.
‘Have you heard?’ Ally says, pocketing her phone.
‘Heard what?’
‘Richie Sheridan’s trial got postponed.’
‘Oh.’ She sets her jaw. ‘Will he get bail?’
Before Ally can answer, Hugh joins them. He’s in a smart navy suit with red tie that he fiddles with. ‘Strange day.’
‘Quite.’
‘Apparently they offered her a plea deal.’ Shakes his head. ‘Didn’t want to take it, stubborn thing.’
‘I’m sure she is doing what she thinks is best.’ She turns to Ally, ‘Shall we?’
Melody takes her usual seat in the third row. The oppressive wood panelling, wood everywhere, the room stinks of it. She eyes the jurors, the clothes, the glasses, the age, the haircuts. Surely there is only one way to lean.
The trial was late into its third week. There had been surreal moments; like hearing her own emergency call to report the discovery of the body and hearing Kathy describe her sexual encounters with Martin. There had been slow moments. Detective Smithes’ performance as the lead investigator. The minutiae of forensic and pathology reports, the exhibits, the testimony and cross-examination. Her own turn on the stand at least, had been mercifully brief.
The courtroom artist is here again in the row ahead of her. She stares intently at Kathy as if burning the image on to her retina. Earlier in the trial, Melody had seen her on the floor outside the courtroom during a recess, pencil-sketching Kathy from memory. Not even allowed to draw within the courtroom. Now there was a thing.
In a way, it is why she is here. As per UK law, there would be no camera recordings of events from within, even the drawing was an impression of a memory. Emancipation from Martin. Punishment for Kathy. Her own freedom. They were all itemised on the same bill, and she mustn’t flinch from paying it in full.
They rise for the judge, Her Honour Constance Holt. The court is in session and after a few words from the judge, the prosecution is invited to give their closing statements.
The robed prosecutor, Durham, is a serious, thin man, a few strands of grey hair poking out from his horsehair wig. A voice steeped with gravitas. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. Over the last three weeks you’ve heard a tragic story. Martin Kitteridge, a husband and veterinary surgeon in Hove, was murdered in extraordinary circumstances. He left a bereft wife, a sister, parents, and a community of friends behind.’ He waves a hand towards Kathy, who is staring downwards.
‘Here’s what we know. Irrefutably, Ms Spellerman and Martin Kitteridge had an affair that ended five weeks before his murder. You’ve seen the desperate emails sent by Ms Spellerman demanding a reconciliation, increasing in pitch and desperation. Here was a young woman, who fell in love, fell pregnant, and envisioned a life for herself with Martin Kitteridge. In the dock you heard her admit she harboured these hopes. You heard her admit she was bitterly disappointed. You also heard her claim that she didn’t do it.
‘So, could she be lying to you? To us?’ Durham pauses for effect. ‘Of course.’ He holds up a paper, and jabs a finger at it. ‘The defendant lied in her first statement to
police. She lied about her alibi, she lied about being able to handle snakes. She looked her good friend and employer Melody Kitteridge in the eye every day for more than two years, while secretly sleeping with her husband! By any measure, it is a prolific track record of lies and deceitful behaviour.’
Durham sips from a glass of water, in no hurry. ‘Martin Kitteridge nicknamed his lover, the defendant, The Cobra. The defence may try again to convince you that the choice of murder weapon, a venomous snake, was a coincidence and had nothing to do with this pet name.’ He lets out a mirthful laugh here. ‘I wish my esteemed colleague the best of luck with that endeavour.’
The courtroom hangs, rapt. Each accusation produces a short shake of the head from Kathy. Durham is good. Convincing.
‘Martin Kitteridge was drugged with Midazolam, a sedative Ms Spellerman used routinely as a veterinary nurse at the Kitteridge Practice. Fact: she had a key to access the pharmaceuticals on site. Fact: Midazolam was found inside a whisky bottle. Fact: the defendant’s prints were found on the bottle.’
He scratches under his chin, letting the facts stack and settle in the jurors’ minds. ‘The defence will no doubt point out the multiple sets of prints on the whisky bottle. True. However, every set on that bottle has been identified and eliminated by a proven alibi or meticulous investigation. Except the defendant’s.’
In the parallel trial occurring in her own mind, Melody savours this particular detail. It was truly divine. Of all of them, her own alibi was the most perfect.
Though it hadn’t been entirely random. Ten days before the murder, she visited Coppell’s, Bradshaw’s and Dapper’s farms and found the cows who were already at or approaching full term, and injected them all with a corticosteroid hormone. The hormone triggered a slow inducement of labour that can take over a week to effect. Across the three farms, she had all but guaranteed call-outs for that Friday afternoon.
‘Strands of the defendant’s hair, fingerprints and DNA were found in abundance at the crime scene. So where was the defendant when Martin Kitteridge was killed? Metres away, in the flat above the practice where she engineered her shady liaisons. And what was she doing? She claims to have been asleep. How convenient. In the annals of excuses, it might rank close to my dog ate my homework.’