Dark Vet

by CJ Hannon

‘Sugar, cinnamon, yeah?’

  ‘Cover it until I can’t see any yellow.’

  ‘So, you got in late?’

  ‘Suspicious death.’

  Jenna slides the French toast onto her plate and one onto her own. It’s good, way too sweet.

  Astrid checks the time.

  ‘I better get moving. Sooner I leave…’ She winks, tips the rest of her coffee down her throat and puts the toast into a napkin.

  ‘Yeah right.’

  She gives Jenna a peck. ‘See you tonight. Can’t wait.’

  Astrid slugs her way through traffic in her bright red Scirocco. Liquid drum and bass eases from the speakers. Fluid. Snaking. At odds with the logjams at the lights. Jenna’s music, and it’s inoffensive enough. She just digs guitars more.

  Sussex House, Hollingbury, home of the Sussex CID. She grabs a coffee from the machine and gets a prime spot in the meeting room. At ten, Acting Detective Chief Inspector Smithes sits at the head of the meeting room table, fingers steepled together.

  It is here where she gets a sense of her city’s darker moods from her fellow detectives. Brighton had always been her home, but it has never stayed still. As the closest sea-side city to London, a lot of the capital’s wealth and workers live here, and for good reason. It is a vibrant mix of urban bohemia, faded Victorian grandeur, flashy tourist attractions, and the gay capital of the UK, all wrapped up in one. A fun destination has its side effects too, attracting stag and hen dos from all over the UK and even Europe, but thankfully her days of being a weekend beat copper on West Street are long behind her. Outside London, Brighton has one of the busiest police stations in the country and the constantly shifting population of tourists adds an additional dimension to police work.

  Smithes absorbs the latest briefing from DS Tomlinson. She knows how he works. He wants the barest facts, the escalations, and decision points. She’s learning. Watching. Assessing. Not just the others, but Smithes too; this blueprint for a leader.

  As a Detective Constable she’d been a known favourite of the former Chief Super, Ian Goodworth, but as he’d neared retirement, or as some said, fallen out of favour, she’d had to find others who rated her. Though not particularly senior, Smithes was highly regarded and getting into the slipstream of his favour now felt like a bold strategic move. She was a rising star. One to watch. A seat at the table.

  ‘Acting DI Van Doren. Go.’

  She gives a brief overview of the cases her four constables are working; a burglary from a jewellers’ in the The Lanes, a bank vandalised by Extinction Rebellion protestors, three assaults: two domestic and one racially motivated. ‘As for me, I’ve got court on Tuesday; the marijuana drug bust. Last night Collins and I picked up a suspicious death in Hove, of a vet. Venomous snake bites, snake whereabouts unknown, immediate risk to public very low due to outside temperatures and the spent venom. I’m expecting lab results to determine species today, though John Hall and the RSPCA believe it to be an elapid; that means a nasty one; a black mamba, cobra or taipan. The post-mortem is scheduled for one-thirty. For now, just a decision on whether to inform public of the potential danger the snake poses, sir.’

  Smithes leans back. ‘Recommendation?’

  ‘We’ve informed local patrols, so we could just keep it tight for now, sir. The immediate risk is very low, we could hold it for at least another day.’

  ‘If the grunts know, it’ll be leaked. I’m surprised it hasn’t already. Draft me a press statement for me to run by comms please, low risk, remain vigilant, call this number, et cetera.’

  She slides a sheet of paper across the table. ‘Already done, sir.’

  He nods, turns to DI Maxwell. ‘Next. Maxwell. Go.’

  Collins fiddles with the radio while he drives.

  ‘Suicide. Accident. Murder,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The vet. Those are the three possibilities.’

  ‘You don’t really think it could be a suicide? I mean, what a way to go.’ He changes the frequency again.

  ‘Just settle on a station, would you?’

  Collins turns it off. ‘We’re basically here now, anyway. Suicide doesn’t make much sense, guv. Alcohol and a snake would be a first, though.’ He parks next to a patrol car.

  ‘I doubt it too.’ Astrid unclips her belt. ‘Best to keep an open mind though.’

  She flashes her warrant card to the scene guard. There is no activity in the house, but the scene still hasn’t been officially released, so they don new forensic suits and return to the room where they’d found the body. Dark smudges and dust cover the room. It’s like a grubby chimney sweep has pawed everything. The body would be in the city mortuary by now, in the chiller, hours away from the scalpel.

  Astrid circles the desk. ‘I’ve been thinking about those bites, Charlie. They didn’t puncture fabric. They went straight to the flesh. Then the spots bled into the trousers.’

  ‘Right… exposed skin.’ Collins sits in the office chair. Astrid ducks her head under the desk. The lining of Collin’s protective suit rides up exposing two bands of flesh above the ankle. ‘So, he must have been sitting when he got bitten.’

  ‘The snake bites above the right ankle.’

  Collins rubs his chin.

  ‘And three times, Charlie! In the same localised area. What does that tell you?’

  ‘He’s slow. You’d whip your leg away after the first bite, not sit around and offer seconds and thirds.’

  This is Charlie Collins all over. Smart. Connects the dots but needs someone to put them in front of him. ‘What else?’

  Charlie stands. ‘He does move, because his body is discovered on the floor, the other side of the desk. Could have been drunk or asleep when the bite happened? The whisky bottle suggests he’d been drinking.’

  ‘I’m very interested to see what the tox screen says. So, he’s bitten here, gets up slow, makes it around to the other side of the desk. Passes out.’

  ‘Maybe he tries to make a call.’ Collins takes out a pad. Not notes, but his growing to-do list.

  ‘And if he doesn’t call for help? It tells us he’s incapacitated… or someone prevented it. She picks up the phone on his desk, gets a dial tone. ‘Working. Check it out.’

  Astrid looks at the clock. Lots of legwork to do. Statements of the staff to take. Collins is at the door, staring at the handle and the lock.

  ‘What is it?

  ‘Guv? I don’t think this was a suicide.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘In Mrs Kitteridge’s initial statement, she said the door was locked, and besides the set found on the body, she had the only spare key, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Say you wanted to lock yourself inside, where would you put the key?’

  ‘I’d leave it in the door.’ She’s stunned, realising what he’s getting at. ‘Which would block someone from putting in a key on the other side.’

  ‘He was locked in here with the snake.’

  He’s jumping too far, assuming too much, but she can’t shake the feeling that Charlie Collins might be onto something.

  Christ, Charlie. I do believe you are starting to see the dots for yourself.

  On the way to the mortuary, Astrid finally gets a call back from the wife, though she sheds no light on the snake.

  ‘There’s something strange about the wife, Collins.’

  ‘Elusive. And if I’m right about the lock, and she has the only spare key…’

  Theories were worth squat without evidence. She thumbs through her emails; one is marked urgent.

  ‘The first lab report’s in.’

  ‘What’s it say?’ Collins glances over.

  She opens the file, enlarges the text and scrolls to the summary.

  ‘Holy shit!’

  Collins doesn’t take his eyes from the road. ‘Guv?’

  ‘The whisky bottle. Significant traces of Midazolam, an analgesic sedative typically
used in veterinary medicine. It was found inside the bottle.’

  There’s a pause as he processes it. ‘Someone spiked it?’

  ‘Forensics got samples from the sink plughole and the trap in the plumbing, and it matches what’s in the bottle too. That’s consistent with the wife’s statement about pouring the rest down the sink.’

  ‘So, he was drugged? I bet Mrs Kitteridge was trying to destroy the evidence.’

  ‘The problem with fixating on a suspect, Collins, is you blinker yourself to other possibilities.’

  ‘Guv, the only way my mind could be more open would be on John Hall’s post-mortem table. Any prints?’

  ‘Yuk.’ She winces. ‘Multiple sets, only Martin Kitteridge and the wife confirmed so far.’

  ‘The wife again? Hardly surprising, given her statement. Think it’ll be enough?’

  He means for it to be classified as an official murder investigation, for the machinery of the system to click into place. ‘This is starting to reek of murder to me too, Collins. And with our current caseload…’

  Collins is smiling. ‘God, I hope we get Smithes. Is he duty SIO? He does technically hold the rank now, doesn’t he? Can you imagine, the guru heading it up?’

  Smithes as SIO was an appealing prospect. She knows how he likes to work, and would grab any autonomy given.

  Collins sticks on his hazards, outside the Co-op. Astrid jumps out and grabs some sandwiches for them both. They eat on the way.

  ‘Is this a good idea, eating before a post-mortem?’

  ‘Better than after. No better test of your constitution, Collins.’

  For all her tough talk, post-mortems always disturb her. How many would she have to attend in her career? Thirty? Eighty? More?

  The organs, wobbling and slick on a tray, she could just about handle; but it was the getting to them that she hated. The slicing. The change in pitch of the surgical saw when it bit into bone and met that increased resistance. The smell of warm bone, like soil.

  They pull into the car park. The single storey pebbledash building was unassuming enough, with a covered drive-in deep enough to take an ambulance.

  Collins points. ‘Wait. Isn’t that Smithes’ car?’

  Unmistakably. Unlike Burrows and the upper echelons of CID, Smithes’ drove the small, neat, electric Nissan Leaf.

  ‘That can only mean one thing, Charlie boy.’

  ‘The guru has landed.’

  They park up, and sure enough, Smithes emerges from the Leaf, phone glued to his ear. He covers the mouthpiece, calls, ‘Van Doren! Collins!’ and ends the call by the time they’re at his side.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Pending any surprises at the post-mortem, this is going official.’

  ‘And the Senior Investigating Officer, sir?’

  ‘Come on, Detective. Don’t pretend you haven’t worked that one out already.’

  9

  Melody

  Melody sits in the Good Stock Deli in Withdean.

  The lunchtime rush is over, a staff member brushes breadcrumbs off tables and wipes them down. Tristan arrives, lanyard round his neck, a little out of breath from his walk from the BT building up the road where he’s working Saturday overtime, dispatching broadband engineers to their jobs around the south coast.

  ‘Melody, I was so sorry to hear the news.’ He takes a seat, thanks her for the coffee she has ready in front of him. ‘I’ve not got long. Ally said it was important?’

  ‘What were you and Martin up to?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The gambling,’ she hisses. ‘I know you and Martin used to go out for a flutter now and again, but this?’ She slides over the piece of paper with the number written on it.

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ He gives a shifty look. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I need to know. Is the amount on there possible? Could Martin be into them for that much?’

  Tristan pales. ‘The exact amount? I couldn’t say, but it’s in that ballpark.’

  Her arm throbs its dull ache, as if triggered by this confirmation. ‘You complete knuckleheads. Does Ally know?’

  He leans forward, hands cradling his coffee cup. ‘Mel, come on. You know Ally has my balls in a vice! I’d drop no more than fifty quid in a night. We can’t afford more and that’s that. But Martin…’

  She wants to throw a shaker at him.

  ‘Look, Martin was his own man.’

  ‘You brought him into it.’ A fresh horror takes over her. With so huge a debt, how much had he siphoned off from their savings already? And from the business accounts?

  Tristan stares into his cup, shaking his head. ‘Martin must have been at his wits’ end, but he never asked me for any money. I assumed with your house, the practice, that he was good for it! He should have known we would have helped, done whatever we could – he just had to ask. I never for a minute thought he’d take his own life.’

  ‘I don’t believe he did.’

  Tristan’s eyes go wild. ‘What?’

  ‘One of Richie Sheridan’s thugs visited me, shaking me down for the rest of this debt. Where do you think I got this figure from?’ She stabs a finger at the paper.

  He lowers his voice. ‘Murder? I can’t believe that… surely they’d just… you know, give him more time?’ He shunts the paper back as if it’s cursed. ‘You need to go to the police.’

  ‘Tristan, just when I thought you couldn’t be any more stupid, you surpass my expectations again.’ She stands. ‘I’m still not sure what Ally ever saw in you.’

  Like a wound, she has to examine it immediately.

  The practice had been Martin’s vision. A luxury vet for the Hove yuppy: kitted out to conduct small animal surgeries to give their pets the finest medical care; a salon to pamper their cats and dogs; a jug of iced lemon water in the waiting room to quench their thirsts.

  Melody sits in the driver’s seat, speaking to the accountant over the phone. The vision shatters, shard by shard.

  Here was a business that last broke even three years ago. A marketing budget trebled by her husband had somehow yielded a dip in income. The numbers did not match the appearance of a runaway success.

  Appear successful. Be successful.

  ‘What if we strip and sell the theatre equipment? Or the salon equipment?’ Even as she says it, she knows it’s a bad idea, the surgery and the salon being their biggest earners. ‘We could steady the boat, build it up again.’

  The accountant is apologetic. ‘Mrs Kitteridge, all the equipment you have; the computers, the medical equipment, the salon equipment, it’s all on lease and most of it has a three-month notice period on return.’

  She slumps as if punched. Oh Martin…

  ‘The biggest issue is the rent. It’s astronomical, and with you being shut right now you’re haemorrhaging cash. And will your clientele want to come back?’

  ‘Shut it down?’ She whispers it into the phone. Really? The place she had decorated herself, where she had treated, saved, and said goodbye, to so many animals.

  ‘Let me put it this way. What would you do if say, a dog comes in with a nasty flesh wound on its leg, it’s infected, gangrenous?’

  She rolls her eyes at his pathetic attempt to be relatable. ‘You amputate.’

  ‘Right. So that’s what you need to do. Amputate. I’d suggest you give notice on the building, the equipment, your staff. Wind it up, move on, get out before the infection spreads.’

  Melody hangs up the phone, a sick feeling burrowing into the pit of her stomach. No. Not just sick. Angry. Consequence leads to consequence.

  She is going to have to fire the staff.

  Tomorrow she has to pay Richie Sheridan. She’s checked the joint account; there’s enough.

  Barely. But after that?

  She stares into space, massaging her aching arm. No time to think, the detective will be waiting for her. She takes a half a diazepam, turns the key in the ignition.

&nbs
p; For a mad moment she considers just driving north, away from all this.

  Instead she turns on her music, takes a deep breath and heads towards Hove.

  10

  Astrid

  Outside the post-mortem room the air is heady with disinfectant, metal, and grim expectation. In the background, the constant sound of trolleys being wheeled and fridge doors clipping open and whoomphing shut; mortuary music.

  Dressed alongside her, in blue surgical gowns is the Crime Scene Manager, the Coroners Officer, Collins, Smithes, and a new face. Smithes introduces him.

  ‘This is Dr Jonathan Uzoma.’

  ‘The criminal profiler?’ Astrid shakes his hand.

  ‘Don’t know whether to be alarmed or flattered that you know who I am.’

  ‘Flattered.’

  ‘Let’s hope I can be of help. Bill’s asked me to provide an initial assessment. Not here to step on any toes.’

  She raises an eyebrow. Being territorial was the last thing on her mind.

  John Hall appears, white wellingtons, green apron and drains the last of his mug. ‘Right. I’m all set. Let’s get cracking.’

  Astrid winces at the turn of phrase, imagining a rib cage being squeezed with giant nutcrackers.

  White tiles gleam. Under fluorescent strip-lighting, the body lies plastic-sheathed on a heavy-duty metal table in the centre An assistant wheels the hoist bed to the side of the room. Lighting and refrigeration units hum in a dial tone duet.

  Astrid positions herself so Uzoma’s large frame blocks her view of the drain gulley. The body she can handle, but there’s something truly nauseating about the liquid and… matter draining away that really twists her insides.

  She checks the line. Sets of watchful eyes sat above medical masks. They stand a spatter-free distance away; protective coveralls or not, nobody wants an arc of sauce.

  Hall removes the plastic sheeting. Smithes lets out a muffled gasp. Uzoma leans as if drawn in by gravity. She feels it too; the need to look closer. What was that? A horrible spidering blackness starting to creep out from the bite wounds.

  ‘Early necrosis.’ Hall says. ‘Localised cell death around the area of the bite.’