by CJ Hannon
A couple of jurors let out a little laugh at this.
‘And then… the police discovered a snake tank in that very same apartment. Perhaps some far-fetched conspiracy theory will be offered by the defence. I urge you to remain within the realm of fact.’
Kathy probably had been asleep. Melody had dosed Kathy’s cup of tea that afternoon, disguised it with sugar. Enough to make her a little drowsy.
‘Then we have the testimony of the snake breeder Olaf Gudmundson. He identified Kathy Spellerman to police as somebody who purchased a venomous cobra in late November. Ms Spellerman claims to never have seen this man before in her life. Again, we have Ms Spellerman’s word butting against the clear testimony.’
Melody keeps her face placid. Olaf’s testimony cost a pretty penny, but he had been worth it. What really happened, was rather elegant. The snake tank had been in Martin’s room all day, hidden away behind a stack of files at the back of Martin’s office before anyone had arrived to work. The hatch opened on a timer at seven p.m. Then the ghost appeared. Ally, in forensic coveralls, to recapture the snake, remove the tank and lock the door.
‘Nobody else could have done this. Detective Chief Inspector Smithes, the Senior Investigating Officer on this case, stated that all other suspects were investigated thoroughly and eliminated by CID. Ms Spellerman had the motive, the means, and is the only suspect without an alibi. Evidence suggests the murder weapon was in her possession at the time of the murder. Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this was a carefully planned pre-meditated murder. Returning with a verdict of guilty on all charges isn’t just the obvious conclusion, it is a responsibility, to bring justice to the family and wife of Martin Kitteridge, a man taken well before his time.
‘The prosecution rests, Your Honour.’
57
Astrid
Bloody typical. She’s late. She’d had to show her face at a career fair at the university. Pump hands, hand out some leaflets, answer questions. Fine, the force was looking for new blood and she had to build up some new credit after her latest promotion. Oh yes, the young, gay, female Detective Inspector – another poster-child for diversity. She knew why she had to do it; it didn’t mean she had to like it. It was using who she was to make some sort of political point. What’s more, could she trust her promotion was based on her abilities or because it looked good? And today, there was the drain on her time – missing the closing arguments in the Kitteridge case.
She skips up the steps, past the security check and slips into the courtroom, taking a spot at the back. Next to her, a reporter scribbles notes in Teeline shorthand on a little pad.
‘Order,’ the judge, Holt, says, banging the gavel. In her experience, Holt was a reasonable judge, but sentenced hard.
‘What’s happening?’ she whispers to the hack.
‘Prosecution gave closing arguments. Slam dunk.’ He returns to his scribbles and the defence barrister rises, tugging at his gown as if for strength. The barrister, Barber, adjusts his glasses on his nose.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,’ he says in his rich, low baritone. ‘The prosecution would have you believe that Ms Spellerman was so distraught and twisted by her affair and lost baby that she sought revenge on her erstwhile lover. She couldn’t have him, so nobody else could!’ He makes a face as if smelling something unpleasant. ‘Nothing could be farther from the truth. Kathy Spellerman was deeply in love with Martin Kitteridge. She wanted him back.’ He holds up a sheaf of papers, and shakes them. ‘She never, ever threatened him in any of the emails. Not once. She loved him and harboured hopes of winning him back. I repeat. She loved him. You do not kill something you love.’
Astrid spots Melody Kitteridge in the third row, sitting next to her friend, face as expressive as a mannequin.
‘Now let’s address the so-called evidence. I put it to you that virtually all the evidence presented by the prosecution is circumstantial, the evidence gathered by investigators flawed and incomplete. The life of a young girl is in the balance. Circumstantial just won’t cut it. Yes, her DNA and hair samples were found in Martin’s room, of course they were. It was her workplace, in her role as veterinary nurse she supported both Mr and Mrs Kitteridge hopping regularly into their treatment rooms throughout the day. It would be odd if they weren’t evidence of her presence in the room.
‘As for the whisky bottle, which had at least four sets of fingerprints on it: think about it. If you were planning on murdering someone in the premeditated fashion the prosecution suggests, first by spiking a drink, wouldn’t you at least use gloves? Or clean the bottle afterwards? Ms Spellerman is a qualified veterinary nurse, an intelligent woman. There isn’t a shred of proof that she put the drugs in that whisky bottle. Nothing. Perhaps somebody else did, even Martin Kitteridge himself. It is wild conjecture at best and categorizes the hopeful nature of this conviction.
‘This case was managed by an inexperienced Senior Investigating Officer, and an inexperienced deputy. It was characterised by procedural errors, mistaken arrests, missed opportunities and the mishandling of evidence.’
Astrid feels herself shrinking. It was all part of the game, but she hates it nonetheless.
‘For example, Mrs Kitteridge, though no longer a suspect in the case, was allowed to leave the crime scene for a bath to wash off crucial evidence on the night of the murder!’
Damn Tom Weston.
‘Then, there is the frankly bizarre appearance of a snake tank in the apartment where Ms Spellerman and Mr Kitteridge conducted their love affair. And when I say “bizarre appearance” I choose my words carefully. Forensic teams found no prints or DNA traces on the tank. I repeat. No physical evidence. Nothing. Not Mr Kitteridge or Ms Spellerman. Nothing on the feeding hatch, nothing. Why? Did it appear by magic?’
Astrid holds her breath. What was this about the tank having no traces on it? It was the first she’d heard of it.
‘She probably wiped it clean, the prosecution said. So, we have a suspect who leaves her prints on a whisky bottle and physical evidence in Martin’s office and their lover’s meeting spot…. yet wipes this one thing clean? Wholly inconsistent. The prosecution can’t have it both ways. If that doesn’t trip the alarm of your doubts, I remind you of the forensics report which states that dust particles found underneath the tank were consistent with the dust on top of the chest of drawers. Meaning it had been planted there very recently.’
‘Mr Barber,’ the judge warns.
‘Placed there, very recently,’ Barber backtracks.
Astrid, too, bristles at the implication. But then, when she’d asked Smithes about the forensic report on the flat, he’d fobbed her off with generalities; It was all fine, as expected.
If the defence barrister is right… but Bill wouldn’t have… would he?
Barber paces in front of the jury. ‘Ask yourselves, how and why would a snake tank appear in the flat, after the date of the murder? The key piece of evidence on which the prosecution rests is the sworn testimony of the snake handler Olaf Gudmundson. An unlicensed snake oil salesman, sorry, snake breeder. A man who cut a deal with police to save his skin, a deal that specifically stated that he give testimony in this trial.’ He points to the floor as he says this. ‘He was incentivised to testify. On the stand he was hazy on specifically where and when he and Ms Spellerman were said to have met. Evasive. Uncomfortable. Why? Because it didn’t happen. Mr Gudmundson did supply snakes, that much is true. But to a criminal organisation with a brutal retribution for dealing with snitches. No wonder Mr Gudmundson was so keen to cut a deal and point a finger at a poor young woman caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. An easy fit-up job.’
He waits a beat, letting this sink in. Damn lawyers, he was even convincing her.
‘So, let’s step back and ask, if not Ms Spellerman, then who? Bank statements and witness testimony prove that Martin Kitteridge was in significant debt to criminal entities in the Brighton area from gambling
on illegal events. Significant cash withdrawals were made leading up to his death, almost cleaning out the entire account. This had nothing to do with Ms Spellerman. No corresponding sums landed in her account. This was a desperate man scrambling to pay off some very dangerous men. And I think he ran out of time.
‘Professional criminals know how to cover their tracks. Is it possible, that while Ms Spellerman slept upstairs, these hardened gangsters could have killed Martin Kitteridge?’ He raises his two index fingers up as if framing his words. ‘Remember: these criminals have a documented relationship with Olaf Gudmundson, who once supplied a venomous cobra for their illegal betting operation, where Martin Kitteridge racked up his debts, a fact glossed over by the prosecution as an irrelevance.’
She wants to yell “Objection!”. There wasn’t a shred of physical evidence to suggest Sheridan or his crew had done this. No matter how good someone was, they always left something.
‘Mr Kitteridge’s murder was a professional hit and a warning message to anyone owing them money. And irony of tragic ironies, they used the very snake Martin Kitteridge gambled on to kill him. This isn’t mere hearsay; the police were actively pursuing Sheridan for a time in relation to this case… until they bungled the sting operation. Pressure to get a result, embarrassment at their botched operation, they needed a name fast. With the big fish off the hook, they pinned it on the next best fit: my client, Ms Spellerman.’
Barber was a complete and utter bastard. That was not how it went down.
‘The evidence against Ms Spellerman is at best circumstantial, at worst, desperately coerced. The most likely perpetrators were not satisfactorily investigated. There is no trustworthy, material evidence in this case. Not a shred. This poor woman has been through enough, and should not be sitting in this courtroom today. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, etch the words reasonable doubt into your minds as you deliberate. This young woman made mistakes; she fell in love with a married man. But that is not a crime. You can and must clear Ms Spellerman of all charges for which she is accused and put an end to her ordeal.’
He nods up to Judge Holt.
‘Your Honour, the defence rests.’
Bloody hell.
The reporter whispers, ‘Didn’t see that coming. Any comment to make, Detective Inspector?’
She shakes her head. But wasn’t this what always happened? Perception, and therefore judgement, were always at the mercy of clever advocacy.
The jurors file out. She’d better get back to work, four cases on the go, a busy team under her. She spots a custody officer she knows, asks him to drop her a text when the jury have a verdict. Could be hours. Could be days.
Melody Kitteridge stands, fanning herself with something, talking heatedly to her friend. Then, as if sensing her, their eyes meet briefly across the courtroom. Astrid raises a hand in acknowledgement. Mrs Kitteridge mirrors the gesture.
Either way. It would all be over soon.
58
Melody
The sea shakes up and down.
Melody wipes a bead of sweat away with her forearm. “Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division plays on the Bose. Strangely good to run to. Must be the drum beat. The digital display ticks from 11.9 kilometres to 12 kilometres and she presses the down arrow to lower the pace for the warm down.
Outside a seagull soars on a thermal, as if pinned there. She steps off her Reebok GT30 Lite treadmill and grabs some Evian from the fridge. The cold liquid wells beautifully in her belly. The gull rises, disappearing from her plane of vision.
She checks her phone. Still nothing. A clerk from the CPS has been keeping her up to date with proceedings. The jury had been unable to reach a unanimous verdict, a majority verdict of no less than ten to two would be deemed acceptable.
The trial is pleasing, the world sees two options: Spellerman or Sheridan. Martin has been dealt with, Kathy is receiving her punishment and she, Melody, is beyond suspicion. Free.
Melody runs a bath, hot, with a splash of Dettol. She washes her hair with soap and a jug of water. After, she stands at the kitchen window staring out to sea, conveying carrots from plate to hummus pot to her mouth in a triangle.
Her phone blinks into life.
Finally.
The press is out in full force. The court room is packed, straining at capacity.
Melody wears a smart suit, the shade a purifying Skimmed Milk White by Farrow & Ball. Ally clears her throat. ‘However it goes, shall we get a drink?’
‘There’s only one likely outcome. We’ll celebrate after, I know an excellent cocktail lounge.’
‘Wherever you like, Tristan’s going to pick the kids up from school. I’m yours all day if you want.’
The courtroom rises. The stage is set. The judge, the jurors, the defendant, the gallery, the prosecution and defence teams nervously waiting. There is only one question in the minds of everyone in the room, and at this moment, the only people who know are the twelve jurors.
Kathy’s head hangs. Melody recognises it, she sees it often enough in animals. It is suffering. It should be over soon enough. The words not guilty will pivot her suffering to joy.
Judge Holt asks the foreperson to come forward. She stands. Plays with the buttons on her cardigan.
‘Have you reached a unanimous verdict?’ Holt asks.
‘No, your honour.’ The foreperson replies.
Melody tries to swallow, but her mouth is arid.
‘Have you reached a majority verdict of at least ten to two?’
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘Very well.’
‘On the charge of Grievous Bodily Harm with Intent, how do you find the defendant?’
There’s a pause for a beat, breaths collectively held.
‘Guilty, your honour.’
Melody rocks back into her seat, stunned. Kathy gasps out a ‘No’. There’s a collective release of energy from the gallery, disbelief, satisfaction, all mixed into one. Howard rubs Susan’s shoulders, who is nodding vigorously. Everyone knows that the outcome of this lesser, though serious charge, will mirror the greater one.
‘Order!’ Holt barks, with a snap of the gavel, ‘Order!’
The noise subsides. Holt gathers herself.
‘And on the charge of the Murder of Martin William Kitteridge, how do you find the defendant?’
‘Guilty, your honour.’
‘But I didn’t do it!’ Kathy sobs. ‘I didn’t! I swear!’ Custody officers pull her to her feet, cuff her, and lead her away.
The court is adjourned for sentencing. Everyone is up on their feet, the barristers shuffling papers, muttering to each other. Barber is straight over to Kathy. The poor girl is a ruin. Susan and Howard are hugging.
‘Er… Mel?’ Ally whispers.
‘Are they simpletons?’
‘Who?’
‘The jury? I mean, it was obvious! Wasn’t it?’
Ally looks back to where Kathy had been sitting. ‘Maybe she’ll appeal, or get a light sentence?’
Melody worries at her knuckle. They’re taking Kathy, Melody turns away unable to stomach the image.
‘Don’t look now but…’
At the back of the courtroom Detective Van Doren is watching them, arms crossed. The detective looks about as pleased as they do about the outcome.
‘Let’s get that drink. You need it.’ Ally is on her feet.
On the way past, Melody pauses in front of Van Doren.
‘Detective. Congratulations on the result, got you a promotion, I understand?’
Van Doren cranes her head and gives Ally a little wave. ‘I see that you brought your partner in crime with you.’
The detective’s choice of words is unsettling. ‘You don’t seem very pleased with the outcome.’
‘Neither do you, Mrs Kitteridge.’
‘I said on the stand that I didn’t believe Kathy would kill Martin.’
‘She’s looking at a long stretch.�
�� Van Doren looks tired, jaded even. ‘Take it from me, women’s prisons are horrible places. Overcrowded. Violent. She’ll get eaten alive in there.’
A hand pulls at her jacket.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Ally says.
‘I–’
‘Come on.’ Ally tugs her away.
‘You watch yourself, ladies. Take care now!’ Van Doren calls after them.
Melody feels Van Doren’s eyes on her back as she leaves. ‘Are they really as bad as all that? The prisons?’
‘Keep walking.’ Ally says.
On the steps, cloying reporters. Susan is giving a statement, but some of the press see her, and jump over to her, surrounding her and Ally.
She had prepared a brief statement, but it was for Kathy’s acquittal. She is unprepared, unsure what to say.
Ally pushes a path through. ‘Move please, move!’
‘Are you pleased with the result Mrs Kitteridge?’
‘Do you feel justice was served here today, Melody?’
The question checks her. She gives a little shake of the head, no and Ally pulls her past the flashing cameras and into a waiting taxi before she can say anything else.
‘Relax, Mel, please. Try not to stress about it. She was guilty of something,’ Ally says fanning herself.
Melody takes a diazepam from her purse. ‘We need to fix this.’
‘Not now.’ Ally holds her gaze. ‘Let’s get a drink. Talk. Calmly. Let’s process this.’
Melody cracks her fingers into her knuckles one by one, waiting for the pill to take effect.
A half hour later and they are sat at the bar in the cocktail lounge. Ally pocking a square black napkin with straw holes.
Melody waves at the girl behind the bar, who indicates to give her a minute.