Blood List

by Ali Carter

  Her head was spinning now, her legs composed of jelly, her lungs fit to burst through her chest, and still she ran. She didn’t bother with the lifts, couldn’t wait, couldn’t be contained and hampered by fluorescent floor-stopping lights. Instead she found the stairs, took them two at a time as her white coat tails streamed out behind her, heart pounding, blood rushing through her ears like a red tsunami! Only when she reached the ground floor and approached the corner to the reception area, did she force herself to slow down and resume a normal walking pace. Front of house was always full of people, even she wasn’t that suicidal.

  Once outside and away from the hospital’s entrance, Charlotte picked up speed, tore off the coat, rolled it into a ball and shoved it into a plastic bag she’d pre-placed in a spare pocket. She glanced furtively around her like a street urchin then started to run again, grateful for her flat shoes. Her car was parked in a side street nearby. On reaching it she threw the carrier into the back, jumped in and pulled the silver Morgan from the kerb in seconds. Her chestnut hair buffeted in the wind and the soft crimson leather hugged her body as she flew the Roadster home on autopilot.

  And in the private wing of Kirkdale General’s 3rd floor beneath Molly Field’s hospital bed, laid a wet mauve plastic folder emitting a sweet and heavy scent.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Morgan’s wheels skidded spectacularly halfway along the gravel drive of Willows Copse. Wide arched lines cut deep into the gravel and sprayed tiny stones across the paintwork of Miles’ own Roadster.

  Charlotte hauled aggressively on the handbrake, wheel spinning the car to a sudden crunching halt and narrowly missing its twin. Scrambling out of the low door as it fell open she ran for the paddock screaming her husband’s name. Suddenly she needed him, she needed him desperately no matter what he’d done. This was one nightmare she couldn’t face alone.

  Miles appeared from within the stables, sleeves rolled up, his usual polished, confident appearance distinctly lacking. There was horse shit on his beige slacks, hay in his hair, and even in the poor light she could see his ashen face, his expression full of genuine concern. He may not have much respect for his marriage vows, but he would never want anything bad to happen to the horses, he wasn’t completely heartless.

  “I’ve called the emergency vet. Callum wasn’t on, there’s a locum working this weekend, a Josie Kinkade.” He paused. “But… but even on the phone she doesn’t hold out much hope. You’d better prepare yourself.”

  “But I need him, I need Callum! Miles ring him! Ring him at home! Make him come! He can do something!” Her voice rose higher and more hysterical with every word.

  “He’s away Charlie, late summer holiday – Cyprus. Don’t you remember him mentioning it when he did their shots last month?” As she knelt beside her babies she could barely hear him, let alone recall the conversation with Callum Westcott. He was the best vet in Kirkdale. She needed him. She needed him right now and he wasn’t there! Charlotte stroked her darling Greta then Gizmo and the tears fell quickly as the affectionate nickname Miles had used in their early days fell on deaf ears.

  Josie Kinkade pulled up alongside the two Morgans and jumped down from the mud-splattered jeep. She yanked out her medical box flipped up the two end catches and lifted the lid. On this occasion it contained a bolt gun. There was going to be little to nothing she could do for these two horses and depending on what the owners wanted to spend she might need it.

  As she checked the firearm, her eyes swept briefly over the large Victorian house and the Scots vet made a derisive generalisation of its occupants. Even in the dark it was obvious her own upbringing in the working-class areas of Glasgow was a stark contrast to this idyll. Barbiturate shots then she concluded. She shrugged the chip off her shoulder, put the gun away and screwed her eyes up against the dark to look for the paddock gate. It was barely visible beneath a large untrimmed willow tree. Reaching back into the jeep for a Maglight, she tossed it the right way round with one hand, flicked the button and walked behind its beam towards the stables.

  The dark wooden building was set at a right angle to a row of tall, equally dark conifers that bordered the two-acre field. As she rounded the end to access the front of the shelter, Josie froze. Every nerve in her body vibrated, her throat sandpapered and her hands became slick as the vet box slid from her grasp to thud heavily on the soft earth.

  “Quickly in here!” Miles was waiting at the door, his voice urgent, desperate. “They’re down already, my wife is with them!” Noticing the dropped box he automatically reached down and picked it up before disappearing into the stable.

  “Th… Thank you,” she replied to the back of his not so white designer shirt, hoping her voice didn’t betray an internal swathe of fear and recognition. She followed him into the equine ‘mortuary…’

  Charlotte was kneeling by Greta, eyes glistening, not feeling the sharp hay poke through her expensive linen trousers, not caring about the mess they were in, not knowing which of her two horses to comfort first.

  Josie glimpsed her surroundings under the illumination of what she hoped they’d intended was a temporary light. Her gaze landed on the single bulb and followed a very long cable that led along the stable block wall and out over to another farm building. Really safe and professional she thought – it’s always the ones with money.

  She placed the torch on top of a large tack box and left it burning. Looking down she saw the evidence of the horses’ condition. The scattered Ragwort told her all she needed to know. The poison had been brought in and she didn’t know the size, but even an average bag densely packed would have been enough to finish them both off – eventually. This was just a case of client hand-holding, a sympathetic ear and euthanasia – there was absolutely nothing else she could do. Josie just needed to do it without Miles Peterson recognising her, and get out of there as quickly as possible. If he remembered seeing her in the pub with Rachel and he did have anything to do with… well at least her hair was pulled back into a ponytail for work. She winced at the unintentional irony.

  Her quiet disposition and slow movements had not gone unnoticed.

  “Don’t just stand there for God’s sake, do something!” Josie walked over to the now utterly tortured Charlotte and knelt down beside her.

  “Mrs. Peterson there’s –”

  “It’s Doctor Peterson and don’t start yacking at me, just get working, and save my damned horses!” Charlotte bent back over Greta, her shoulders were shaking, she was visibly sobbing now and both animals were uttering painful throaty noises. Their bloated stomachs were plain to see. It was absolutely heartbreaking.

  Josie stood up again, chanced eye-to-eye contact with Miles and shook her head slowly from side to side. Uncomfortable though it was, she held his gaze until certain he knew what she meant. Miles sighed – felt utterly beaten. He ran a hand stressfully through his hair and fully acknowledging the situation now his gut instincts had been confirmed. He showed no signs of recognising the young Scottish vet, turned to his wife and swallowed hard before he spoke very softly…

  “Charlotte.” She didn’t hear him. She moved erratically between the two horses, not knowing who to hold, who to caress, her clothes reeking of horse sweat, fodder and urine, she was in another world that was simply delaying the inevitable. Miles tried again, this time he raised his voice slightly.

  “Charlotte.” He bent down and stretched out his arms, both hands cupped her shoulders. For the first time in years he actually felt compassion. “She can’t do anything for them Charlie, you know that. Ragwort’s a killer, look how much they must’ve eaten.” She spun round suddenly then, her face contorted in resentment.

  “Callum could!” she screeched, “Callum could save them!” She shook herself free of his touch, her voice soared higher and higher, her eyes grew wider, the whites shone madly in the half-light. “Why aren’t you doing something?! Call yourself a vet – you’ve not eve
n tried!!” She wiped a clammy hand irritably across her forehead, forced an escaped clump of hair back behind her ear. Her eyes narrowed sinisterly now as she looked directly at Josie. “If you don’t do something I’ll hold you personally responsible! When Callum gets back I’ll… I’ll…” Josie paled and shot a glance at Miles for direction.

  “Do it.” He instructed crisply; then took hold of Charlotte’s shoulders more firmly this time and pulled her on to her feet. He wasn’t about to let the woman he’d spent the last twenty odd years with witness the destruction of her only friends.

  “Nooo!!” Charlotte desperately tried to shake herself free from his grasp. She clawed at the air with her expression distorted on a face that spoke volumes beneath the streaked mascara as she fought to stay with her only ‘children’.

  “Which meth–”

  “Injection.”

  With that, Miles dragged his grief-stricken wife out of their stables and half-coaxed, half-marched her firmly back towards the house. Every faltered step, every stumble was accompanied by haunting wails and sobs of protest railed against it – this blackest of nights. But even she couldn’t silence the sound of death.

  Josie Kinkade sat at her kitchen table nursing a half-drunk mug of tea. A glance at the clock above the sink immediately made her yawn long and hard. One a.m., time for some shut-eye she decided. The chair scraped noisily backwards across the flagstones as the young woman got up to head for the little winding staircase of her rented cottage.

  She trudged her way slowly up to the landing where two bedrooms sat snugly next to each other and pushed open the door of the one she was using. Mentally exhausted, and not only from a long day, Josie flopped fully dressed onto the bed and began to doze. Behind heavy lids she reflected on the past hour in a mixed haze of sympathy, and anxiety that Miles may have recognised her. She had absolutely no possible realisation it wasn’t Miles Peterson who was her problem.

  There were no more call-outs that evening and she slept deeply until six a.m. when her uninvited alarm clock – the infuriating yap of next door’s Terrier – woke her as usual.

  Charlotte lay very still. It had been a tortuous and sleepless night where she’d refused to take anything to help her rest, had refused any form of comfort from Miles, and to his credit, he’d really tried – and refused to take any time off work.

  It was just after seven and although she lay on her side, legs pulled up to her chest in a protective ball, motionless and seemingly numb, her brain was operating at full capacity. Molly Fields was no longer a top priority. ‘Ms. Vet’ Josie Kinkade, however, was another matter entirely.

  Miles placed a mug of coffee on her bedside table and sat gingerly at the edge of the quilt. She pretended to be asleep.

  “Charlotte? Are you awake?” Nothing… He guessed at her pretence, her need for seclusion. “I’m going to work now, why don’t you take the day off eh? A few days even. I know you said you didn’t want to but I can manage you know, I honestly feel you’re not in a fit state to consult at the moment. Understandably so, you’ve had a terrible shock, a dreadful emotional loss.” He waited for a response. There was none. “If you really won’t, then I’ll see you later, but at least have a long lie-in, maybe just do a few home visits this afternoon.” Her answer was to turn away and face the opposite wall. Miles sighed heavily, then stood up and walked slowly towards the door where he hesitated for a few seconds before he retraced his steps. He bent over his wife, hovered momentarily then placed a light kiss on her ruffled hair. With still no response he straightened up and walked swiftly from the room.

  Charlotte waited for his footfall on the stairs before she opened her eyes. They were dry. There would be no more tears. She had only three sensitive points: her inability to have children, unconditional love for her horses and an excessively irrational sense of self-preservation. The first she could do nothing about, for she was not prepared to house anyone else’s cast-offs. The last two she would avenge to the death – anybody’s.

  Charlotte threw off the covers. It was time to get back to work.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Cordon tape vibrated noisily in the crisp breeze, the red and white blurring with the very speed of it. Behind him, the river beneath Tiddly Bridge ran fast over its stony bed as it blew bush twigs and silver birch leaves along its ripples. It was only mid-September, but the wind was already singing and the promise of a cold winter lurked around the corner.

  Harry Longbridge turned up the collar of his grey padded jacket and rammed his hands deep into his pockets. He nudged gently at a piece of dirty glass with the toe of a black loafer and expertly flipped it over. Bending down the object became clearer than on his first sharp-eyed flash – most would have missed it, but not the Magpie. With a clean handkerchief he turned the broken segment over to reveal a gold stud earring.

  “Walker! Over here!” PC Joe Walker left his other colleagues to search the small rear garden that belonged to Josie Kinkade’s rented cottage, and joined his boss at the side kitchen door.

  “Sir?”

  “I need a SOCO bag.” Longbridge held the find up between forefinger and thumb, the hanky carefully between his fingers and the earring. Joe produced a bunch from his pocket, pulled at one and opened it along the seal as Harry carefully dropped the small gold stud into it. “Don’t forget to write the details on that and ensure it gets included with the button we found earlier.”

  “Sir.” The young officer nodded and turned to go.

  ”And Walker –” Harry added, “make sure you log everything when you get back to the station. I don’t want to find half of it left in the squad car.”

  “To be honest sir, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of evidence here.”

  “That Walker is why you’re still getting sent for take-out.” There is always more evidence than you think Walker – always. You’ve just got to look hard enough.” The rookie reddened, dropped his head and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

  “Yes sir. I’ll remember that sir.”

  Harry turned back to the broken window, depressed the kitchen door handle and crunched his way across the stone slabs.

  He wondered why the house felt so hot it necessitated the removal of his jacket, but a familiar smell soon gave it away. Even with the killer’s chloroform trademark vying for dominance, the Longbridge nose could sniff weed out a mile off. He reckoned this house had been privy to regular use. The smell had attached itself to the fabrics: curtains, cushions and carpets, just like nicotine would.

  He made his way up the steep staircase to the landing where it didn’t take too long to find the source. He popped his head round the door of the larger of the two bedrooms where one of his officers was already recording details and taking photographs. It was basically an indoor greenhouse. Trays of cannabis plants – some mature, some seedlings, were stacked floor to ceiling on neat rows of light aluminium shelving. Oil-filled radiators that trailed end to end along the floor and in-between each shelving stack, were belting out full blast. Super bright extra large bulbs hung along a crude spaghetti junction-style cabling system. Heavily taped and tacked, across the ceiling and down the walls, all the hooded reflectors carefully aimed at the plants. Ms. Kinkade obviously liked gardening as well as animals then. She’d certainly been a very busy girl. He moved next door to the smaller of the two bedrooms.

  Andrew sat in the car outside the Kirkdale Veterinary Practice and looked down at the card Rachel’s Scottish friend had given him. Ms. Josie L. Kinkade BVSc MRCVS. She never mentioned she was a vet he thought, flicking at it with his thumb, but then why should she I guess? It wasn’t like we were chatting socially when we met. She wasn’t the sort of person Rach would’ve hung about with though, that’s what I can’t understand. A stab of guilt pierced then. He knew Rachel may not have studied for any kind of degree, been professionally trained or particularly well versed in anything much, but she would’ve helped anyone who needed it
and had possessed a heart of gold – one that had been cruelly and brutally ripped open…

  Not having been able to reach Josie at the mobile number on the card, he’d decided it must have been the practice mobile, and called in to the surgery to see if she was on duty. The receptionist had informed him she was a vet down from Glasgow working six monthly posts around the UK to gain a range of animal experience. She currently floated between the Kirkdale and Leighthsham village surgeries as a locum, and wasn’t working at the Kirkdale practice that week. Andrew had used all his charm to persuade the young receptionist to give him Josie’s home address after showing her the contact number she’d given him. The mobile apparently was Josie’s own, not the practice one, so the girl had thought it’d be okay to give him her private address.

  Andrew stuck the card in his pocket and started the engine. A home visit then, after all, he had promised to keep her in the loop.

  His car approached Leighthsham’s Tiddly Bridge and as he scanned the cottages on the far side for the house number, the police cordon fluttered into view. Suddenly his stomach lurched. He slowed right down to squeeze the car through the ultra-narrow bridge road as sweat broke out on his forehead. Not again – surely? He caught sight of the cottage’s number behind the tape and realised it must be Josie, or someone living with her. Once on the other side Andrew slid the window down, breathed deeply and gestured to the youngest officer he could see on the cordon. Joe Walker strode importantly over to the car, head up, shoulders back, doing his best to look commanding at nineteen. He bent down to the Mondeo’s open window.

  “What’s the deal here then?” Andrew asked coolly as he flashed his press card, “not another murder surely?” He tried very hard to look nonchalant, as if he regularly reported on murders.