Dark Vet

by CJ Hannon

  The assistant takes notes even though Hall’s observations are being recorded.

  ‘The size and shape of the bruising on the upper arm and hip suggest a fall onto that side, from standing height. No external evidence of trauma to the head or body to suggest a sudden loss of consciousness.’ Hall continues the external examination, moving down the cadaver, past the nest of pubic hair and his penis, like a pale beak. Perhaps everybody looked ugly laid bare on Hall’s indifferent table.

  Hall is on the snake bites now. Comparing his measurements of the wounds to those he’d taken in situ. An assistant takes close-ups of the area with a digital camera.

  ‘The fabric of the trousers wasn’t compromised, which suggests the victim was sitting down when bitten, exposing the ankle. That the three bites are so localised would also suggest the victim was slow to react.’

  ‘I believe you also made that observation,’ Smithes says to her, and it is the first time anybody other than Hall has spoken. She is proud and embarrassed all at once.

  ‘Sharp eye, Detective,’ Uzoma says.

  ‘Medal’s in the post,’ Hall says wearily, and motions for his assistant to pass him the surgical saw.

  It’s time for the internal examination.

  She steels herself, but doesn’t look away.

  Hall saws the cap off the skull, like scalping the top of an egg. With the assistant’s help he removes the brain, weighs it and cuts it into slices, like a suet pudding. Christ, she has to stop it with the food comparisons. Her stomach turns over.

  Collins is white as bone.

  She’s actually glad she ate beforehand. There’s little chance of an appetite later.

  When the grisly business is done, Hall addresses them.

  ‘With the usual caveats, the cause of death is sudden cardiac arrest probably brought about by the neurotoxic venom. I noted there was Midazolam in the whisky bottle, we should get toxicology back from Cellmark labs on Monday to verify it was in his system too. All signs so far would suggest so.’

  ‘It all feels like design rather than an accident.’

  ‘I’ll send across the full report early next week. Good luck figuring this one out, Bill. Interesting to have something that isn’t an RTA or an addict for a change.’

  ‘Thanks, John. How’s the wife?’

  ‘Taking her out for a steak dinner tonight.’

  Astrid can just imagine Hall slicing through bloody steak with implacable calm, his day job perfectly compartmentalised. How did he do it?

  ‘Thanks, John,’ she says, aware she’s been too quiet.

  Hall nods, turns to his assistant. ‘Right, pack him back up.’ He means wrapping any extracted organs that haven’t been sent for analysis back into the body and sewing Martin Kitteridge back up. Coffin-ready. ‘Couple more to go and we can get out of here. Chop-chop.’

  In the changing room, the post-mortem attendees mutter to each other. It is discombobulating. Like stepping away from an all-engrossing film at the cinema into bright sunshine. Astrid pulls off one of her white wellingtons. There’s a single spot of blood on the toecap.

  ‘Van Doren,’ Smithes says, catching her daydream. He pulls on his suit jacket. ‘Could you come and see me back at HQ just before six, please?’

  She checks the time. She has an appointment to see Melody Kitteridge at four-thirty, just enough time to get there for six, and then be back at home for dinner at eight with Caz and Sam. ‘Sir.’ This must mean she’s on the team. But as what?

  She stares at the blood on her boot. This little bit of Martin Kitteridge clinging to her, like an overboard sailor gripping to flotsam in vain hope.

  Justice is all she can give him now.

  11

  Melody

  She’s like an old computer, being asked to process too many transactions at once, and if she’s not careful things will start to jam up and crash.

  When Melody pulls the Defender into her drive, two women emerge from a parked car on the street. One youngish in a suit, hair styled over a shaved undercut. The other is a uniformed policewoman.

  ‘Mrs Kitteridge?’ The suit shows her a warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Van Doren and this is PC Baqri, a Family Liaison Officer, or FLO.’

  The policewoman says hello, smiles at her, just the right measure of compassion and friendliness. What an art to be able to arrange your face like that.

  ‘I expect you’ll be wanting to come in. Follow me.’

  The FLO offers to make the drinks but Melody doesn’t want her rummaging around her kitchen. Herbal tea for the FLO, a coffee for the detective. As the water boils, the diazepam is rubbing the sharp edges of the world into something more rounded, smoother.

  Melody takes a strong coffee for herself, and sits upright in the armchair. Cleopatra enters. The detective reaches down for a stroke, but Cleopatra ignores the advance, and leaps up onto Melody’s lap. Good girl.

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ PC Baqri says.

  For now. ‘It’s good of you to notice.’

  ‘PC Baqri will be your point of contact, Mrs Kitteridge, to keep you and Martin’s parents in the loop of any developments with your husband’s case. She’ll have a direct line into our investigation. She’s here to support you.’

  ‘That’s right.’ The FLO hands her a card. ‘Here’s my number.’

  Melody doesn’t take it. ‘I’d like to opt out.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ PC Baqri says.

  ‘I don’t need this sugar-coating and hand-holding. If there’s anything I need to know I trust the detective here can just pick up the phone and tell me.’

  PC Baqri gives the detective a look of bewilderment.

  ‘It helps us too, Mrs Kitteridge. We can focus our resources on the investigation.’

  ‘I don’t intend tying your hands, detective, nor badgering you every day for updates. You’ll need no human buffer, we’re all professional women, are we not?’

  ‘Right… well, let’s see how we go.’ The detective nods. ‘I do have a few questions I need to ask you, Mrs Kitteridge. Could I just start by going over your movements again on Friday the tenth of January?’

  Melody runs through her day, the call-out to Dapper’s farm, the time of her return.

  ‘And I understand after you gave your statement, you came back here to get cleaned up?’

  ‘That’s right. I had a bath.’

  The detective purses her lips, ‘And you stayed in all evening here with your friend, Ally Campbell?’

  Why does she want to know about what she did after?

  ‘No. I had another call-out. Bradshaw’s farm, two more calves to deliver. Ally drove me. We returned after two in the morning.’

  Something clouds the detective’s expression. That wasn’t the right answer to give. ‘You went straight back to work after finding your husband dead?’

  ‘If I hadn’t gone, two more calves and quite possibly one of the mother’s would have died. It might not seem much to someone who investigates death, but my job is to prevent it, which strikes me as a far more valuable service.’

  The FLO jumps in here, struggling for relevance. ‘Sometimes it can be best to keep busy. Take your mind off things.’

  Melody doesn’t answer. Mugs are sipped, and an uneasy atmosphere settles round the room.

  ‘Let’s talk about your husband.’

  ‘How old are you, Detective?’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ the detective’s cheeks flush red.

  ‘You just seem a little young.’

  Van Doren looks at the FLO, smiles. ‘I’m fully trained and experienced. Thanks for noticing my youthful complexion though, it must be my moisturiser. Let’s return to your husband, shall we?’

  Melody notes the recovery. To be a Detective Inspector so young, and as a woman, can’t have been an easy ascent. It is something she can respect. ‘Please.’

  ‘How would you describe your marriage?’
>
  Melody turns the ring on her finger. ‘I don’t really have a lot to compare it to, but we got on well. I’d say we complemented one another.’

  ‘How did you complement one another?’

  ‘I’m organised, he was a bit sloppy. He was the life and soul of the party, while I’m more reserved. He had the social skills, I had the work ethic. It worked well at the practice. A good division of labour.’

  ‘Would you say he was happy?’

  ‘Generally. We had a successful practice, he recently won Vet of the Year. We had this place, though Martin was drinking a little more than usual.’

  ‘Why do you think that was, Mrs Kitteridge?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  Detective Van Doren writes something down. ‘And when you found his body, what did you think?’

  Melody takes a deep breath, strokes Cleopatra on the belly. ‘Initially, that he’d passed out drunk. I was annoyed.’

  ‘You said he was drinking a little more than usual? Passed out drunk sounds more serious.’

  ‘Quite.’ She presses the back of her hand into Cleopatra’s skull. She purrs. ‘Perhaps it was like the frog in the slowly boiling water. So gradual it’s hard to pin down when he started drinking to such excess. When I saw him on the floor, I thought it was pathetic, truth be told. I tipped the rest of the whisky down the sink.’

  ‘How much was left, roughly?’

  ‘Fifty per cent was left in the bottle, approximately.’

  The detective makes a note. ‘Was it open already, or did he drink that much in one session?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘When did you realise that he hadn’t passed out drunk?’

  ‘I prodded him with my toe, tried to made him stir. Then I checked his pulse. Maybe I thought he’d killed himself. Whisky and pills. That I’d grossly underestimated how unhappy he was. Disbelief. Questions, so many questions that I wanted to ask him. And then when you told me all about the snake bites… I didn’t know what to think.’

  ‘Think back for me. Did your husband have any connection to snakes, snake handlers?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Martin didn’t really have anything to do with snakes, didn’t even like them as far as I’m aware.’ She stares straight into the detective’s eyes. ‘Any news about what type of snake it was?’

  ‘We’re still looking into it,’ Van Doren says evenly, and Melody wonders if she’s lying. ‘Anyone have a grudge against him?’

  ‘I can’t think of anybody. Everybody loved Martin.’

  The policewomen wrap up their questions, the detective informing her that CSIs will be round to do a routine sweep as soon as a warrant is approved. People going through their home, their things. Traipsing through the rooms indifferent to her beautiful kitchen with its warm wooden worktops, the Mudejar tiling and tasteful lighting, the Calke Green paintwork by Farrow & Ball. Indifferent to the life they had here.

  The house is hers again. The world darkens.

  And for how much longer will all this be hers? She makes a painfully elaborate Martini with Honjozo Sake; dewed glass, spiralled lemon. Sips.

  Dry as a gasp and sharp enough to cut. She allows herself two more sips, then pours the rest of it down the sink. She has to keep it together.

  She tops up Cleopatra’s water bowl with fresh Evian from the fridge. Unpeels the foil of the cat food. Cleopatra miaows, then eats.

  An errant drip of the tap. New ice jostles for space in her Samsung dual-sided, ice-making fridge. The wet nibbling of Cleopatra eating her premium salmon-based food.

  Was this the quiet sound of her life imploding?

  12

  Melody

  Brighton 2000

  Melody is up a minute before her alarm. Body clock. A marvel. How did it know? Such skill locked up in the subconscious.

  She showers, dresses. Boot cut jeans, an old INXS T-shirt, a cable knit sweater on top, black boots. It is a strange thing. A camouflage. Like a chameleon. The more she dresses like her college classmates, the less fire she draws. She knows. She’s been keeping a record.

  Melody takes the batteries from the charging dock, loads them into her mini-disc player. Of all technological innovations in her lifetime, this one feels the most profound and impactful. The CD, miniaturised into an unscratchable cartridge. Customisable, to make her own beautiful playlists. Longer play time. No jogging. No skipping. It is her biggest indulgence.

  Modern music is decidedly depressing; the Spice Girls, The Corrs, boybands galore, tired Britpop. She delves deep to find authenticity. INXS is loaded already but she packs a few of the small cartridges into her bag, a mix with Simple Minds, another of vintage Madonna. One unmixed: Prince’s masterpiece Sign o’ the Times.

  Someone is in the shower. Paul, her guardian. She can tell by the humming. Carl, the last remaining of her foster brothers, is probably still asleep, his door closed. He is doing a plumbing apprenticeship. Goes out to the pub most evenings. She barely sees him. She is less a family member, more a lodger.

  The kitchen is a mess. Dried rice on the work surface, the sink full. Slobs. She cannot wait to be out of here.

  She washes up, wipes down the surfaces. It’s part of the deal. Ashy purrs from under the table and she tops up his kibble. He lumbers over, and while he crouches over his food, she administers a jab into the muscle of the hind leg. The vet showed her how. It’s easy. Routine now.

  Melody takes a bus out to Whitehawk. It struggles up the incline. She switches disc to Madonna and the bright cords of “Into the Groove” nestle into her ears. She gets out and makes her way to one of the drab concrete council flats. It at least has the virtue of a sea-view. She should like a view of the Channel one day, contemplate it like it’s hers. Not in Whitehawk though.

  She takes the stairs to the fourth floor, and knocks.

  ‘Coming!’

  Ally opens up, she’s loading an A4 pad into a record bag. ‘Shit, come in.’

  Melody walks through into the lounge where Mr Campbell sits, his belly stretching the seagull on his Brighton & Hove Albion T-shirt.

  ‘Morning, Melody.’

  ‘Yes, it is, Mr Campbell.’

  ‘Shoo, you bugger.’ He waves at the seagull perched on the window sill.

  ‘Over there,’ Ally says.

  Melody takes the syringe pen from the dining room table and crouches next to Mr Campbell. She senses Ally behind her.

  ‘Ally, you might want to look away.’

  ‘No… I need…’ She grips her father’s shoulder. ‘Just do it.’

  ‘I really do appreciate this, love.’ Mr Campbell has rubber bands over the joints of his fingers, and struggles to pull the T-shirt over his round belly.

  Melody pinches his ample belly fat, and administers the injection. She glances up. Ally’s pale but she’s still standing.

  ‘There. Nothing to it,’ Melody says.

  Ally rests pats her father’s back. ‘There’s a sandwich made up for you in the fridge and your drink’s just there.’

  ‘Thanks, love, you run along now.’

  ‘I’ll be back about half three.’

  They sit next to each other on the bus back into town.

  ‘Here.’ Ally holds out a fiver.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Your time… your help.’

  ‘Keep it,’ Melody says. It was a paltry thing to be paid for, too unskilled.

  Ally doesn’t argue. Money is tight for them both, Melody suspects. ‘I’ll get there, just a few more times. Are you okay to come after college?’

  Melody nods. ‘Where else would I need to be?’

  Ally snorts. ‘Fair enough.’

  They continue on in silence, until Ally asks, ‘Are you going to apply to uni?’

  Melody nods. ‘Cambridge. Veterinary Medicine.’

  ‘A vet? Good for you.’

  Melody remembers to reciprocate. ‘And you?’

 
Ally shakes her head. ‘Don’t think so.’

  Ah, yes. Of course.

  When the college is in sight, Melody slows.

  ‘Go ahead if you don’t want to be seen with me.’

  Ally narrows her eyes, and pulls her forward by the arm. ‘What are you talking about? This is sixth form college, we’re all mature.’

  ‘Oi, Ally. What you doing with that mong? Taking her out for her morning excursion?’

  Giggles. Melody freezes, traces the voice to a girl. A popular one, for some reason, with a gaggle of friends around her.

  Melody walks on. ‘I’ll see you later, Ally.’

  ‘No,’ Ally says, a sneer turning her ugly. She stabs a finger at Melody and shouts back ‘She’s worth ten of you. Fuck off!’ She gives a double middle finger.

  Melody absorbs the look of shock on their faces, and is pulled again, forward, through the college doors.

  ‘Holy shit, that felt good,’ Ally says.

  Melody tucks her hair behind an ear, unsure what to say. ‘I’ll see you here at three, then?’

  ‘Bugger that,’ Ally says, linking an arm through hers. Melody eases into the contact instead of fighting it. It is strong. A chain. Bound to one another by bones.

  ‘So,’ Ally says, ‘what do you normally do at lunch?’

  13

  Astrid

  Sussex House. Smithes’ office door is open. Her heart hammers. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Good, you’re here.’ Smithes is barefoot, and his lower half is in what she thinks is Tree Pose, while he reads messages on his phone.

  Bemused, she sits in the offered chair.

  ‘We’re up and running. Operation Windbourne.’

  ‘Neat and discrete, sir.’ The operation names are generated randomly by computer, though vetted to make sure the name doesn’t hint at the operation’s contents. While Operation Snakebite would have sounded fierce if generated, the blandness of Windbourne would always triumph with the technocrats.

  Smithes sits on his chair, crosses a leg over and threads a black sock over his foot. ‘Van Doren. You’re ambitious, bit of fire in your belly.’