Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part Two
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Tail End
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Read on for an extract from Daisy in Chains
About the Author
Also by Sharon Bolton
Copyright
Sharon Bolton is the critically acclaimed author of some of the most bone-chilling crime books ever written. She has been shortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger for Crime Novel of the Year and the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year. In 2014 she won the CWA Dagger in the Library for her whole body of work.
Sharon lives near Oxford with her husband and young son.
For more information about the author and her books, visit www.sharonbolton.com. You can also join her at www.facebook.com/SJBoltonCrime or on Twitter @authorsjbolton
How did it all begin? . . . A few minutes before six on a Friday morning and my quiet, orderly life went into meltdown.
When a man dies from what appears to be a random snake bite in a quiet country village, the hospital seeks the expertise of wildlife vet Clara Benning. But the post-mortem reveals this was no freak accident.
Clara finds herself drawn into the hunt for a brutally inventive killer, putting herself in grave danger as she unravels links to a barbaric ancient ritual, an abandoned house and a fifty-year-old, unspeakable tragedy.
For someone the truth must remain buried in the past, even if they have to kill to keep it there.
The darkest hour I’ve ever known began last Thursday, a heartbeat before the sun came up.
It was going to be a beautiful morning, I remember thinking, as I left the house; soft and close, bursting with whispered promises, as only a daybreak in early summer can be. The air was still cool but an iridescence on the horizon warned of baking heat to come. Birds were singing as though every note might be their last and even the insects had risen early. Making the most of the early-morning bounty, swallows dived all around me, close enough to make me blink.
As I approached the drive leading to Matt’s house the fragrance of wild camomile swirled up from the verge. His favourite scent. I stood there for a moment, staring at the gravel track that disappeared around laurel bushes, kicking my feet to stir up the scent and thinking that camomile smelled of ripe apples and of the first hint of wood-smoke on an autumn breeze. And I couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to walk up the drive, steal into the house and wake the man by rubbing camomile on his pillow.
I carried on walking.
When I reached the top of Carters Lane I saw the door to Violet’s cottage was slightly open; which it shouldn’t have been, not at this hour. I drew closer and stood on the threshold, looking at the peeling paintwork, the darkness of the hall beyond. She was probably an early riser, old people usually are; but at the sight of that open doorway, something began to tense inside me.
The doorstep was damp. Someone with wet shoes had stood here minutes earlier. It didn’t necessarily mean anything; it could easily be coincidence, but none of the reassurances I could summon up seemed to soothe away a growing sense of disquiet. I pushed at the door. It opened a further six inches and hit an obstacle.
‘Violet?’ I called. No reply. The silent house waited to see what I would do next. I pushed the door again. It moved a few more inches, revealing a damp trail on the floor. I squeezed round it and stepped into the hall.
The sack behind the door was hessian, with a string-tie pulling the opening tight. It looked like the sandbags the Environment Agency produces when floods are imminent. But I didn’t think this sack had sand inside. It wasn’t heavy enough, for one thing. Nor did it have the solid, regular shape of a sandbag, especially a damp one. And this one wasn’t damp, it was soaking.
‘Violet,’ I called again. If Violet could hear me she wasn’t letting on.
The door at the end of the hallway was open and I could see the room beyond was empty. There was no sign of Violet’s dog, Bennie.
And that’s the point at which I stepped from anxiety to fear. Because a dog, even one that’s elderly and far from well, won’t normally allow someone to enter its house without a response of some sort. Violet could still be asleep; she might not have heard me call. Bennie would have heard.
Knowing it was the last thing in the world I wanted to do, I turned and bent down beside the sack. Wet, solid, but not sand; definitely not sand. I pulled out the small penknife I keep in my pocket, cut through the string and allowed the sack to fall open. Then I took hold of the bottom corners and tipped the damp, dead contents on to the worn linoleum of Violet’s hall floor.
Bennie, looking even smaller than he had in life, lay before me. I didn’t need to touch him to know that he was dead, but I bent and stroked his coarse fur even so. There were a few shallow wounds around his face and neck where he’d injured himself, scrambling to be free as he’d sunk deeper into whatever pond or river he’d been flung. But the sack still wasn’t empty. I moved my fingers and something else fell out. Terribly injured, its body badly mauled and just about torn apart in places, the snake convulsed once before falling still.
For a moment I thought I’d be sick. I sank down on to the cold floor, knowing I had to find Violet, but unable to summon up the courage. And the strangest thought was going through my head.
Because it seemed that something was missing. I was remembering history lessons from school, when we’d studied Ancient Rome and hung on the teacher’s every word as he’d entertained us with stories of Roman justice, torture and executions. One particular mode of death had caught our imagination: the convicted prisoner – who, I think now, must have committed just the worst sort of crime – was tied into a sack with a dog, a snake and something else; was it an ape – or some sort of farmyard animal? And then flung into the river Tiber. Most of the class had laughed. It was all so long ago, after all, and there was a touch of the comic about that particular collection of animals. Even I could see that. But I’d never really thought before what it must be like to be tied up in a sack with an animal – any animal – and flung into water. You would fight – frenziedly, hysterically – there’d be teeth and claws everywhere and water flooding into your lungs. And the pain would be beyond . . .
I had to find Violet.
I made my way along the hall and through the living room. A door at the far end led to the stairs. I found a light-switch and flicked it on. It wasn’t a long flight of stairs but climbing it seemed to take for ever.
There were two open doors at the top. To the left, a small room: twin beds, dresser, fireplace, and a window looking out over woodland. I took a deep breath and turned to the right.
‘Look before you leap, for snakes among sweet flowers do creep.’
Proverb
NOW YOU SEE ME
A savage murder on London’s streets, 120 years to the day since Jack the Ripper began his reign of terror. Lacey Flint hunts a psychopath whose infamous role model has never been found . . .
‘Probably the best thriller that you’ll read all year’ Choice Magazine
DEAD SCARED
A spate of suicides at a prestigious university, each more horrific than the last. The only way to find the killer is to send someone undercover: Lacey Flint becomes the bait . . .
‘Sharon Bolton is hot property in crime fiction right now’ Stylist
IF SNOW HADN’T FALLEN (A SHORT STORY)
Tensions come to the boil when a young Muslim man is brutally murdered by a masked gang. There’s just one witness: DC Lacey Flint.
‘Bolton knows precisely how to ratchet up the tension and tell a cracking story’ Guardian
LIKE THIS, FOR EVER
Twelve-year-old Barney Roberts is obsessed with a series of local murders. His neighbour DC Lacey Flint joins the hunt for the killer . . .
‘Spine-tingling’ Lisa Gardner
A DARK AND TWISTED TIDE
Police Constable Lacey Flint thinks she’s safe. Living on the river, working on the river, swimming in the river, she’s never been happier. It can’t last . . .
‘Bolton’s latest gripper. Suffused with menace’ The Times
HERE BE DRAGONS (A SHORT STORY)
Mark Joesbury is risking everything to stop a deadly attack on the capital. But it’s not just London he’s fighting to save: the terrorists have also got the woman he loves, DC Lacey Flint . . .
‘Bolton rules the world of the psychological thriller’ Huffington Post
SACRIFICE
Tora Hamilton, a newcomer to the remote island of Shetland, discovers a woman’s body preserved in the mud of her field. Who is she, and why is Tora so unwelcome here?
‘If she carries on like this she will have worshippers in their millions’ The Times
AWAKENING
A series of unnatural events are occurring in Clara Benning’s village. The reclusive vet discovers a connection to an abandoned house, and a fifty-year-old tragedy the villagers would rather forget . . .
‘This book writhes and glides and slithers its way into the reader’s psyche’ Guardian
BLOOD HARVEST
Harry, the new vicar in town, is subjected to a series of menacing events. What secret is his parish hiding from him, and who is the young girl lingering in the graveyard?
‘Well-crafted, original and spooky’ Daily Mail
LITTLE BLACK LIES
Living in a small, island community, Catrin can’t escape the woman who destroyed her life. How long before revenge becomes irresistible?
‘Creeps under your skin and doesn’t let you go’ Paula Hawkins
DAISY IN CHAINS
Hamish Wolfe is handsome, charismatic – and a convicted murderer. He wants bestselling true-crime writer Maggie Rose to prove his innocence. But will she be able to resist his charms?
‘Utterly suspenseful. A terrific, twisted read’ Paula Daly
HOW DID IT all begin? Well, I suppose it would be the day I rescued a newborn baby from a poisonous snake, heard the news of my mother’s death and encountered my first ghost. Thinking about it, I could even pinpoint the time. A few minutes before six on a Friday morning and my quiet, orderly life went into meltdown.
Seven minutes to six. I’d run hard. Panting, dripping with sweat, I found my key and pushed open the back door. The moment I did so my young charges started screeching.
Rubbing a towel across the back of my neck I crossed the kitchen, lifted the lid of the incubator and looked down. There were three of them, hardly more than a handful apiece, hungry, grumpy balls of feathery fluff. Barn-owl chicks: two weeks old and orphaned just days after birth when their mother hit a large truck. A local birdwatcher had seen the dead owl and knew where to find the nest. He’d brought the chicks to the wildlife hospital where I’m the resident veterinary surgeon. They’d been close to death, cold and starving.
They’d been starving ever since. I took a tray from the fridge, found a pair of tweezers and dangled a tiny, dead mouse into the incubator. It didn’t last long. The chicks were thriving but, worryingly, getting far too used to me. Hand-rearing wild birds is tricky. Without some sort of human intervention, orphaned chicks will die; at the same time, they mustn’t become dependent on humans. In a couple more weeks I was hoping to introduce them to avian foster-parents who would teach them the skills they needed to hunt and feed themselves. Until then I had to be careful. It was probably time to move them to an enclosed nesting box and start using a barn-owl-shaped glove puppet at mealtimes.
Three minutes to six. I was heading upstairs for a shower when the phone rang, and I braced myself to be called in to deal with yet another roe deer run over on the A35.
‘Miss Benning? Is that Miss Benning, the vet?’ A young woman’s voice. A very distressed young woman’s voice.
‘Yes, speaking,’ I answered, wondering if I was going to get my shower after all.
‘It’s Lynsey Huston here. I live just up the road from you. Number 2. There’s a snake in my baby’s cot. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what the hell to do.’ Her voice was rising with every word; she seemed verging on hysteria.
‘Are you sure?’ Silly question, I know, but be fair, a snake in a cot isn’t something you see every day.
‘Of course I’m sure. I’m looking at it now. What the hell do I do?’
She was too loud.
‘Stay quiet and don’t make any sudden movements.’ I, on the other hand, was moving fast, out of the house, grabbing my car keys as I went, bleeping open the boot, reaching inside. ‘Do you think it’s bitten her?’ I asked. Surprising myself, I remembered that the baby was a girl. I’d seen pink balloons outside the house a few weeks ago.
‘I don’t know. She looks like she’s asleep. Oh God, what if she’s not asleep?’
‘Is her colour normal? Can you see her breathing?’ I grabbed a couple of things from the back of the car and set off up the hill. I could see the Hustons’ house, a sweet, whitewashed cottage at the top of the lane. The family was new to the village, had only lived there a few weeks, but I thought I could picture the mother, about my age, tallish, with shoulder-length fair hair. She and I had never spoken before.
‘Yes, I think so; yes, she’s pink. Can you come? Please say you can come.’
‘I’m nearly there. The important thing is not to frighten the snake. Don’t do anything to alarm it.’ I pushed open the gate and ran up the path to the front door. It was locked. I ran round the back. The phone I was carrying was too far from its base station and began to beep at me. I switched it off and pushed at the back door.
I was inside a brightly coloured, modern kitchen. For a house with a newborn baby it seemed remarkably tidy and clean. I put the phone down on the table and walked along the hall in the direction of the voice I could hear gabbling upstairs. As I approached the stairs I noticed damp patches and traces of mud on the otherwise spotless tiled floor. A familiar sound caught my attention. Glancing to the right I saw an incubator of newborn chicks in a small utility room. The family kept chickens.
‘I’m in the house,’ I called out softly. When I reached the top of the stairs I saw a scared, white face peering at me from behind a door at the far end of the corridor. The woman beckoned and I walked towards her. She stepped back and allowed me into the room.
I was in a small, pink and cream bedroom tucked under the eaves. Supporting beams stood out dark against the white plaster of the walls. Pink fabric, printed with fairies and toadstools, lined the small, deep-set window. Stuffed animals, mainly pink, were everywhere I looked. Against the longest wall stood the crib, a baby princess’s cradle from a fairy tale: all cream lace and pink flounces. I stepped closer, still nourishing the hope that had sprung up when I answered the phone, that the snake would be a toy one, a practical joke played on the mother by an older child.
The baby, tiny and perfect, panted softly in a white baby-gro embroidered with pink rabbits. Her mouth was slightly open, I could see the perfect raised pores above her upper lip, long dark eyelashes and the faint traces of a milk rash on her cheeks. Her fists were clenched and her arms thrown above her head in the classic newborn-baby sleeping pose. She looked absolutely fine.
Apart from the fact that she was sharing her bed with a venomous snake that would strike the moment she moved.
SURPRISINGLY, GIVEN THE row the mother had been making, the snake appeared to be sleeping too. It lay, half curled up, half stretched out, across the baby’s chest, enjoying the warmth of the infant’s body, slowly raising its own body temperature to match hers. It was about fourteen inches long and, I guessed, would have a circumference of about three and a half inches at its widest point. Not a young snake.
With my arrival, the mother had quietened down, but still looked ready to lose it any time.
‘I thought it was probably a grass snake,’ she said in a theatrical whisper, ‘but I couldn’t be sure. They can be dark grey, can’t they?’
I was pulling on my gloves, made of toughened leather and reaching past the elbows; they protect my arms from the bites of larger mammals, badgers, foxes and the like. I hadn’t used them to handle a snake before.
‘It isn’t a grass snake. I need you to stay where you are and be calm. Don’t make any sudden movements or noises.’
‘Oh shit, it’s not an adder, is it? That man, last week, on the high street, it was an adder that bit him. They say he’s really ill.’
I moved closer. I hadn’t heard about anyone being bitten, but the news didn’t concern me particularly. ‘He’ll be fine,’ I began. ‘An adder bite won’t . . .’ I stopped. I’d been about to say an adder bite wouldn’t kill a healthy adult, which would have been extremely tactless in the circumstances. The last person to die of an adder bite in the UK had been a five-year-old child. A newborn baby bitten by an adult adder might not live until we got her to hospital.
‘Quiet now, please.’
‘What should I do? Should I phone an ambulance?’
She wasn’t capable of quiet. I had to get her out of the room.
‘Yes, but do it downstairs, do it quietly. Tell them the situation and say your baby may need medical assistance immediately. They’ll need to be prepared to resuscitate a young infant.’
Reluctantly, she left the room, and I moved forward. My legs were having trouble doing what I asked of them and inside the thick gloves my hands were shaking. It felt like a long time since I’d been scared of an animal. I’d been in cages with tigers and filed elephants’ toenails. I’d given sedatives to badgers crazed with pain and helped a buffalo give birth. I’d experienced excitement, exhilaration, many times; I’d had several attacks of nerves, but I’d rarely felt fear.
I was very frightened, though, for the innocent little tot just feet away from me, dreaming her safe baby dreams of milk and cuddles. Because the predator on her chest, leaching away her warmth like a parasite, had phenomenal killing power. Snake venom is a complex substance, designed to immobilize, kill and then aid digestion of prey. If this tiny creature were bitten, within minutes the anti-coagulants in the adder’s venom would prevent her blood from clotting and she would continue to bleed from the wound. She’d feel immense pain; the shock of it alone might kill her. After a while, proteolytic enzymes would start to break down her body tissues and she’d suffer internal haemorrhaging. Eventually her flesh would swell, her skin turn blue, purple, even black.
And all this with just one bite. Just one lightning-charged strike and her brief existence could be over. Even if she survived she’d be badly scarred.
Well, not if I had anything to do with it.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. The snake was still asleep but the baby – oh no, no, no – was waking up. She murmured, stretched, wriggled. If she was anything like my nieces had been as babies, the moment of waking would be the instant she realized she was starving. She’d open her mouth and wail for her mother. Kick her legs and throw her arms around. The adder would panic. It would defend itself. Time had run out. Even then I didn’t move.
I’d never touched a wild British snake. I wasn’t even sure I’d seen an adder before, but there was no doubt what I was looking at. Grass snakes are long, slender snakes with oval-shaped heads. This snake was shorter, squatter, with the distinctive zigzag down its dark-grey skin and the V for viper on its forehead.
The baby mewed; the snake woke.
It rose up and looked around, tongue flickering, sensing a threat but unsure where it was coming from. There was a sudden noise outside. Lynsey was back. I reached for the snake. It spun round, struck at me and we grabbed each other.
As the adder fastened its fangs into the leather of my glove I took hold of it close to the head with my other hand and lifted it up and away from the crib. Lynsey gave an inarticulate cry and ran – faster than the adder’s strike, it seemed to me – for her baby’s cot. She grabbed the child and began to mutter mummy nonsense as I kicked open the lid of the animal-transporter box I’d brought from my car and dropped the snake into it. It took a bit of persuasion for it to let go of my glove, but a gentle squeeze behind the head did it. I closed the box, locked it and pulled the gloves off. My right wrist had two tiny indentations where the snake had grabbed me, but the skin wasn’t broken. I turned back to Lynsey and her daughter. Tears were pouring down the mother’s face.
‘We need to get her undressed,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she’s fine but we need to check.’
I steered them both to the changing table and, when Lynsey seemed incapable of functioning, took the baby gently from her and laid her down. I took off the baby-gro, vest and nappy, hardly able to believe the softness of her pearl-like skin.
Furious that her normal routine of snuggles and all the milk she could drink was being withheld, the baby’s arms and legs shot in every direction and her face turned puce as she yelled for breakfast. I took hold of her wrists and stretched out her arms, then the same thing with her legs. I turned her over and examined her back, her plump bottom, the nape of her neck. Everything perfect.
I picked her up and reluctantly (how surprising, I’ve never been fond of babies) handed her back to her mother. Lynsey grasped her like she was a missing part of her own body and tugged open her blouse.
After a few minutes, during which Lynsey didn’t seem capable of talking and I had nothing to say, I heard footsteps downstairs and a male voice. Bracing myself (meeting strangers for the first time is always an ordeal), I picked up the snake’s box and went down to meet the ambulance crew. Carefully avoiding eye contact, I explained what had happened, grabbed my phone and called goodbye to Lynsey and her daughter.
Only as I was walking home did I realize I hadn’t asked the baby’s name and that I would probably never now get the chance. Pearl, I decided I would call her, because she had skin like a soft-pink pearl.
The owl chicks, ever hopeful, started up again when I opened the front door. They were probably making less noise than both the house phone and my mobile but the difference was marginal. I glanced at the house phone still in my hand. Work. Then at my mobile on the kitchen table. Also work. Hobson’s choice.
‘Clara, we’ve got badgers.’ It was Harriet, my veterinary nurse and receptionist. ‘Badly injured. Coming in now. How quickly can you get here?’
‘Badgers? Plural?’
‘Three of them. Hardly alive. Found this morning in a warehouse just outside Lyme. They’ve been badly mauled.’
I sighed and looked at the clock. It was 7.20 a.m. and I’d already gone head to head with a poisonous snake and spoken to three more people than I normally do all morning. Now I had to deal with a particularly nasty case of badger-baiting.
About two miles on to the A35 I pulled off the road. There’s an area of heathland there, an adder’s natural home. I walked a hundred yards in and let the snake out of the box. It disappeared in seconds.
ONE OF THE badgers was a pregnant sow that gave birth fifteen minutes after arriving at the hospital. A few seconds later she was dead. The three tiny cubs, hardly bigger than mice, were whisked off to intensive care.
The more badly injured of the two remaining adults was a young boar. He had serious lacerations across his abdomen, bite marks covering both his front claws, half his snout was missing and I really didn’t like the look of one of his front legs.
‘Bastards,’ said Craig, the senior nurse, beside me. I couldn’t argue.
Badger-baiting was outlawed in the UK in 1835 but continues to this day as one of our most cruel, illegal blood sports. For some unfathomable reason, it’s even enjoyed something of a renaissance in the south-west in recent years. The rules of engagement are pretty simple: you take one healthy, adult badger, deliberately harmed in advance to slow him down, and put him in a confined space with several dogs. Then you place bets on how long the badger will last.
At one time, fights typically took place in setts, the badgers’ underground homes, but these days the animals are more often chased from their setts by terriers and transported in secret to specially dug pits. Open countryside, particularly if it offers shelter in the form of old farm buildings, is a popular choice of location, but evidence of badger-baiting has been found close to towns, on industrial estates or in abandoned warehouses.
Should a badger ever win, he gets clubbed to death. Finding three survivors was extremely unusual, and I could only imagine the fight had been interrupted and the perpetrators forced to flee.
Our badger was already in a strong, close-meshed steel cage, so I wouldn’t have to worry about handling him. Badgers are extremely strong, entirely unpredictable and frequently aggressive. They also have exceptionally powerful jaws. You do not – ever – want to get bitten by a badger. Over the next hour, I would try to get him stable, treat the worst of his injuries and load him up with pain relief. After that, it was up to him.
Craig lowered the ceiling of the cage until the badger was immobile and I could inject a mix of medetomidine, ketamine and butorphanol into his hind-leg muscle. It was a pretty effective cocktail of anaesthetics and painkillers, but the anaesthetic would need topping up by inhalation throughout the procedure. That would be Craig’s job. When I judged it safe, I opened the cage and Craig and I lifted him on to the operating table.
He’d lost a lot of blood. It took me a minute or two to find a vein, but after that I soon had him hooked up to a drip. I gave him an injection of methylprednisolone to treat his shock and one of amoxicillin to help fight infection.
‘Any hope of catching the gang?’ I asked, as I began cleaning the wounds around his snout, relieved to see the muscular damage wasn’t too bad. Some of the pelt was hanging loose. I would try to reattach it.
‘Not much,’ said Craig, his voice muffled by the mask he was wearing. Bovine TB is a common problem in the south-west. Not all badgers are infected but, when treating them, we have to assume they may be. ‘They’ve got a van registration number and they’ve tracked it as far as Exeter, but their vehicles are nearly always stolen, aren’t they?’
I nodded. These were organized gangs. They made a lot of money from their illegal gatherings. They knew how to protect themselves.
The lacerations on the abdomen weren’t as serious as I’d first feared, but in late spring fly-strike on open wounds can be a problem. I rinsed with disinfectant and insecticide. Once the wounds were clean, I could suture them quickly.
‘Police found a dead dog at the site,’ said Craig. ‘Staffordshire bull terrier. Some poor kid’s pet.’
I’d heard that tremor in Craig’s voice before. He could cope with the sickest, most badly injured animal but found it hard to deal with deliberate cruelty. ‘How do you do it, Clara? How do you stay so calm?’ he’d asked me once, tears streaming down his face as we’d euthanized a young fawn whose eyes had been gouged out by a gang of teenagers. He and the rest of the staff thought me cold. But how could I tell them that human cruelty never surprised me. I’d been dealing with it every day for as long as I could remember.
The door opened and Harriet appeared. I saw the look on her face and braced myself to hear that the other badger was dead.
‘Clara, you need to take a phone call,’ she said, hovering in the doorway.
I shook my head and held up gloved hands, covered in blood and bristles. ‘I’ll be done in an hour,’ I said and turned back to my patient.
‘Clara, it’s your father. You really need to take this.’
I looked at her again, realized what her watery eyes and scared look really meant. Not a badger, then. It wasn’t the badger that had died.
I unhooked my mask and pulled off a glove. Pressing the receiver to my ear, I listened to what my father had to say, then told him I’d call him later. He was still talking when I pressed the tiny button that cut him off and handed the phone back to Harriet.
‘I’m pretty certain the right front humerus is broken,’ I said. ‘If he survives the night, I’ll have a look at it in the morning. An intramedullary pin might work.’
Harriet was still in the room, ostensibly cleaning the phone with disinfectant. Out of the corner of my eye I caught her giving Craig a look.
‘Everything OK?’ he asked me. I nodded my head slowly and got on with my stitching. I forced myself to concentrate, knowing Harriet was mouthing words to Craig and that he was struggling to lip-read. He was no longer looking at the badger’s head, and it takes a lot to break his concentration. I glanced up.
‘I think he’s waking up,’ I said. Craig looked down, mind back on the job.
‘Clara, you should go. Be with your family,’ tried Harriet.
‘When I’m done,’ I said, without looking up. ‘Can you make sure blood samples get sent to DEFRA? And how are the cubs doing?’
She shrugged, gave one last look at Craig and left the room.
I passed by the nursery on the way to collect the other badger. The three orphaned cubs were huddled in an incubator. They’d taken some milk – a special version of infant formula we use on newborn mammals – and were doing as well as could be expected. They lay together, huddled for warmth, panting and mewling. Tiny, scared, motherless.
Rather like me.
THE LITTLE ORDER of St Francis, where I’ve worked for nearly five years, was founded by Catholic monks in the late nineteenth century to treat sick and injured wild animals. These days a charitable trust keeps it going: we get donations from all over the world, hundreds of people are our ‘Friends’ in return for an annual subscription and the visitor centre attracts thousands every year. We will treat any British wild animal – mammal, reptile, bird, amphibian – no matter how small or how badly injured. Only when an animal is in so much pain that to treat it would be cruelly to prolong its suffering do we put it down. Some people accuse us of being ridiculously sentimental, of squandering charitable goodwill that could go to more deserving causes. Personally, I think people should be free to choose for themselves the object of their charity and that all lives, even tiny, secretive, short ones, have a value and a purpose.
The third badger was not so badly injured. It took me just over forty minutes to do as much as I could, then I sent him away for rest and observation. When we’d finished, Harriet was waiting for me again, and I braced myself to run her gauntlet of motherly concern. She was going to make me take a break, serve me hot sweet coffee, force me to talk and, with any luck, break down and cry on her shoulder. Harriet had known me for five years. You’d think she’d know better by now.
I set off towards the nursery, and Harriet had to tag along behind, almost trotting to keep up.
‘Clara, there’s someone waiting for you in reception. One of the doctors from the Dorset County. He’s been here nearly an hour. I told him you were busy and that – well, that it wasn’t a good time – but he said it was important. Something about a snake.’
I stopped dead in the corridor and Harriet walked into the back of me. The baby I’d rescued that morning would have gone to the Dorset County Hospital in Dorchester for observation. If the doctor wanted to talk to me urgently, if he was actually here, the adder must have bitten her after all. How could I have missed it? I turned back and was in reception seconds later. A young man in jeans and a sweater jumped up when he saw me. A large shoulder-bag sat by the side of his chair. He strode across, hand held out to take mine. We’d never met before but he seemed in no doubt I was the woman he wanted. Someone had warned him about how I look.
‘Miss Benning? Thanks for seeing me. I’m Harry Richards. I’m an ITU consultant at the Dorset. I’d really appreciate the chance to ask your advice about something.’
‘Is it about the baby?’ I couldn’t remember the name of the family. ‘The baby who was admitted this morning?’
‘No.’ He looked puzzled. ‘What baby? I’ve come about John Allington.’
‘Oh,’ I said. I didn’t know a John Allington. Behind us, Harriet was pretending to shuffle papers.
‘I’m very sorry to tell you this,’ Dr Richards continued, ‘but I’m afraid Mr Allington died this morning.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Still no nearer.
‘I’m sorry. I hope he wasn’t a close friend of yours.’
‘No,’ I said, wondering how long this could go on. As he hadn’t come to tell me about the baby, I’d lost interest.
‘Sally Johnson suggested I get in touch with you. She said you know a lot about snakes.’
Enough was enough. ‘I’m sorry, but I think there’s been some mistake. I don’t know these people and I really have to . . .’
‘You are Clara Benning, the vet here?’ He sounded cross, which made two of us.
‘Yes. And this is a very busy morning for us . . .’
‘Sally Johnson is one of the district nurses attached to the hospital. She told me you and she live in the same village. The village Mr Allington lived in. She says she’s your next-door neighbour.’
OK, massive slice of humble pie on the menu. Of course my next-door neighbour was a district nurse; I saw her in her uniform quite often. I think I’d even known her name was Sally. When I’d first moved in she’d popped round a few times, refusing to be put off by the ever chillier welcomes on my part. In the end, I’d just stopped answering the door.
Behind Dr Richards, Harriet had given up all pretence of working. A door opened behind us and a woman and toddler came in. The tiny boy was carrying a shoe-box. ‘Birdie,’ he explained, marching up to the counter. Another casualty.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Dr Richards. ‘It’s just been one of those mornings. Look, I have to do a round of the outside enclosures now. Why don’t you come with me? We can talk on the way.’
Richards nodded, turned to pick up his bag and then followed me through the reception doors and into the gift shop.
‘You’re familiar with what happened to Mr Allington?’ he asked as we nodded to Holly at the desk and walked outside.
I didn’t answer immediately. Then I had it. Lynsey had mentioned someone on the high street being bitten by an adder. That must have been John Allington. And he’d died?
‘He was bitten, wasn’t he?’ I said. ‘By an adder.’
‘Five days ago. I really need to speak to someone with some knowledge of snake bites and their effects.’
We were in the part of the hospital where we keep hedgehogs, wild rabbits and ducks in low-fenced enclosures. It’s popular with children, and we passed a couple of tots with their parents peering into the tiny hutches.
‘Surely you’ve spoken to the poisons centre?’ I asked.
The UK National Poisons Information Service should be a doctor’s first port of call when dealing with any case of poisoning. They have a number of regional centres and are well set up to offer advice over the phone and on their website, ‘Tox-Base’.
‘Of course. I was in touch with them as soon as he was admitted and they guided me through his treatment. But no one there is an expert on snake bites. The advice they can give me is very general. There just isn’t a need for that sort of specialism in the UK.’
‘I understand.’ He was right. The last recorded fatality due to snake bite in the UK, the five-year-old child, happened thirty years ago. Since then, probably fewer than twenty patients suffering from snake bite had been referred to hospital.
‘So, can you help?’ Dr Richards was saying.
‘Well,’ I said, stalling for time. I wasn’t sure whether I could. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to. ‘In my second year at university I chose an elective in exotic and wild animals,’ I said, in the end. ‘I did my summer work experience in Chester and Bristol zoos and, for one reason or another, spent a lot of time with the reptiles.’
I broke off to exchange a few words with the keeper who looked after our small-animal enclosures. All patients were doing well, she told me, and the doctor and I crossed a small bridge and arrived at the lake.
‘After my final year I was one of the assistant vets at Chester for a few months, then I spent a year in Australia helping on a reptile research project,’ I said, when I realized Dr Richards was waiting for me to continue. ‘I also volunteer occasionally at the reptile re-homing centre in Bristol. But for the last five years I’ve worked here. We don’t see many reptiles, I’m afraid.’
We stopped to watch the waterfowl on the lake. It was more crowded than usual but at this time of year we often get perfectly healthy specimens dropping by for a quick visit. Dr Richards was watching a moorhen splashing around in the reeds.
‘The truth is, Clara,’ he said, when I’d run through my reptilian resumé, ‘nobody at the hospital knows I’m here.’
I said nothing. The moorhen climbed out of the water and shook its feathers.
‘I’m sure you know it’s highly unusual for a healthy adult, even one of Mr Allington’s age, to die from an adder bite,’ said Dr Richards. ‘As soon as he was admitted we sent samples of his blood off to the biochemistry lab. We had the snake that supposedly bit him but, even so, we had to know exactly what we were dealing with. We got the results back a couple of days ago.’
‘And?’
‘There was adder venom in his blood, no doubt about it.’
‘And you say the snake was found,’ I said, beginning to wonder where all this was going. ‘That it’s been identified as an adder?’
Richards reached into his shoulder-bag and withdrew a sealed, clear wallet. Inside it was a small snake which I judged to have been dead for several days. ‘It was in the garden close by Mr Allington when his gardener found him,’ said Richards. ‘He’d managed to kill it before he lost consciousness.’
I took the wallet from the doctor and held it up to get a better look at its contents. ‘He was brought in unconscious?’ I repeated.
‘Yes, but that was a result of his head injury. We think he fell and banged his head, possibly when he started to feel ill. And to cap it all off, he landed in his pond, which is pretty deep by all accounts. Luckily, his head stayed clear of the water. Although as things turned out . . .’
‘Yes, quite,’ I muttered, handing back the wallet and wondering if I was beginning to share Dr Richards’ unease about his patient’s death. ‘So did he regain consciousness?’
‘He did. But it didn’t help much. He couldn’t really remember anything and was barely lucid at the end. He suffered from extreme vomiting, shortness of breath, lost all control of his limbs and had a high fever.’
‘Adder venom is more potent in the spring,’ I said. ‘When they come out of hibernation. Were there any other underlying conditions? Heart condition? Respiratory disease?’
‘None. He was sixty-nine but in very good health for a man of his age.’
‘People who are allergic to wasp and bee stings can sometimes react badly to adder venom. Could that have been the problem?’
‘The poisons centre suggested that. But none of his symptoms suggested an allergic reaction. Just severe poisoning.’
‘Can I ask how you treated him?’ I asked. In spite of myself, I’d become interested.
‘When he first came in we cleaned the bite site and gave him an anti-tetanus shot. Then I phoned the poisons centre. They told me to keep a close eye on him, to monitor his pulse, his blood pressure and his respiration at fifteen-minute intervals. We weren’t too concerned at that point.’
‘But he deteriorated?’
‘Quickly. We started to see a lot of swelling, not just around the bite site. He was in a huge amount of pain, so I gave him analgesia; also anti-emetics to try and control the vomiting. We gave him a colloid infusion, anti-histamines and adrenaline.’
‘What about anti-venom?’
‘The poisons centre biked some down. European Viper Venom Antiserum. It seemed to cause an initial improvement but the next day his blood pressure fell and we started to see cardiac arrhythmias. By day three he was suffering seizures. Day four brought acute pancreatitis and renal failure. He spent his last ten hours in a coma.’
I gave Dr Richards the moment of silence the situation seemed to call for.
‘That’s pretty dreadful. I’m sorry,’ I said, after a while. ‘But what do you need from me?’
I sat at my desk in the lab, staring down at the papers Harry Richards had left behind. A chemical analysis of a dead man’s blood. Every couple of seconds I glanced up and checked the information on the computer screen in front of me. Scattered around the desk were several of my old college textbooks. I looked at the blood-test results again. They weren’t going to tell me anything I didn’t know already. I picked up the phone.
‘It’s Clara Benning,’ I said, when I got through to Harry Richards. ‘The snake is definitely Vipera berus. In other words, a common British adder. And I can’t disagree with what your lab found. The venom is also from an adder.’
‘Right, then.’ He paused for a moment, realizing, as I’d known he would, that I had more to say. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Just one snake was found? Is it possible there were more?’
Silence for a while. ‘This is the first mention I’ve heard of others. I suppose there could have been but . . .’ He stopped.
‘When you examined him, how many bite marks did you see?’
He thought again. I heard a rustling of paper.
‘Just one. Two indentations where the fangs punctured the skin. I’m looking at photographs. I can show them to you. Why, what have you found?’
‘Not sure yet,’ I said. ‘Can I hang on to these results and the snake for a couple of days? There’s someone else I’d like to ask.’
‘So what do I tell the coroner?’
‘Tell him tests are still being carried out. I can get back to you on Monday.’
Dr Richards and I wished each other good morning and I started to get up. I had a huge amount to do. Then I sat down again, thinking. Two incidents involving venomous snakes. In the same week. Even the same village. I sighed and picked up the phone again.
‘Roger,’ I said when I was connected, ‘what are you doing tomorrow morning?’
‘NOT ANOTHER SNAKE!’
I jumped. Harriet had crept up behind me and was staring over my shoulder. She took a closer look. ‘Not sure there’s much we can do for that one.’ Then she leaned towards me, put a hand on my shoulder. I resisted the urge to stiffen; she meant well. ‘Clara, are you sure you’re OK?’ she said. ‘I know we’re busy, but we can manage if you want to get away.’
I turned round. She was very close, her face not more than six inches from mine, but Harriet was used to me. She didn’t flinch.
‘What do you mean, “Not another snake”? How many snakes have we got?’
‘None in residence,’ she said. ‘We just seem to have had a rush on them lately.’
‘I haven’t seen any.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t have. They were either dead or perfectly OK, just tangled up in netting. Once we got them loose we let them go. They’ll all be on the system.’
I pushed my chair so that it slid sideways along the desk. Every animal arriving at the hospital is recorded in our admissions log. I scanned down the list. That day was the third Friday in May. At the beginning of the week someone had found a grass snake tangled in the netting covering their pond. Harriet and one of the other nurses had cut the nylon net away, checked the snake, found it completely unharmed and set it loose. I checked who’d brought it in. A man from my village.
The previous week, a dog owner had brought in an adder that his animal had caught and savaged while out walking. It had been dead on arrival. I wondered how the dog was. Any snake cornered will put up a fight. The dog owner lived in my village.
The third incident hadn’t resulted in an animal appearing at the centre. Someone had called in a panic to say they had an adder in their kitchen. Craig had gone to investigate and discovered that the snake was a smooth snake, similar to the adder in appearance but perfectly harmless. He’d encouraged it out of the house. My village.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything. The previous year we’d had a long, hot summer; it was perfectly feasible that a greater than average number of snakes had been born. And so far we’d had an unusually warm spring. All hibernating snakes would be awake and active. It was probably nothing to worry about. Sooner or later natural balance would be restored.
And that’s what I told myself – several times – as I drove home.
I’d intended to leave early, but it had just been one of those days. No sooner had we got the badgers stabilized than a young muntjac, badly injured by a speeding car, was brought in. By the time I’d stitched him up, three orphaned fox cubs were waiting for my attention. Despite all my best intentions, it was approaching seven o’clock by the time I turned into my lane.
People in my front garden.
The short, narrow lane curves round to the right, so that the house at the bottom, mine, is tucked away and can hardly be seen until you’re practically upon it. I was pulling into my drive when I saw them – one on my doorstep, two loitering in the garden and the fourth leaning over the wall talking to my neighbour, Sally, the district nurse.
I parked the car but didn’t move, in the faint hope that they’d just wanted a sneaky look round my property and would slink off now that I’d arrived. I just had to take my time.
When I looked up they were all waiting for me to get out of the car, wondering why I hadn’t moved. Fighting a temptation to run round the back, I collected my bags, got out of the car and walked towards the group, making myself look at them and not at the ground. The oldest of the four – they were all men – came towards me with his hand held out. He was tall with thick white hair. I judged him to be in his late fifties.
‘Miss Benning? So sorry about this, but we’ve been hoping you’d come back in time. I’m Phillip Hopwood, from The Elms, top of the high street. You know Daniel, I’m sure.’
I didn’t know Daniel from Adam, but Daniel grabbed my hand in both of his. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am,’ he said. He was tall and dark-haired, a pleasant-looking man in his early thirties. ‘Lynsey’s been beside herself all day. I can’t think what we would have done without you.’
‘Doesn’t bear thinking about,’ agreed man number three, now standing slightly behind me, making me think – ridiculous, I know, they were all perfectly friendly – that I was being deliberately surrounded, that I was back in the playground. I half turned. He was young but largely bald. Thick stubble on his chin. ‘Any idea how the thing got into the bedroom?’ he continued.
Daniel shook his head and ran one hand up through his hair. ‘God knows,’ he said. ‘There were windows open but . . . we were wondering if the chicks might have attracted it. Snakes eat baby birds, don’t they?’
‘How is she?’ I asked him, surprising myself. I hadn’t planned on talking until it was unavoidable.
‘Oh fine, absolutely fine. Lynsey’s the wreck. Jumpy as a cricket. Won’t let Sophia out of her sight.’
‘Can’t say I blame her,’ said the man who had been talking to Sally. ‘Linda would be the same. Can’t bear the things.’
‘Yes, well,’ said the tall man with white hair. ‘Time’s running on. Perhaps we can explain to Miss Benning . . .’
‘ ’Course. Go ahead, Phillip.’
‘Miss Benning – Clara, is it? – people are concerned. We’ve all heard about John Allington . . . terrible business . . . and, as for the incident this morning . . . well, thank God you were there.’
‘It was no problem, really,’ I said, because they seemed to be expecting me to respond. ‘I didn’t know John Allington but I’m very sorry . . .’ I felt my hand tightening on the bag I carried. The snake that had killed John Allington was closer than they knew.
‘Yes, yes . . . Thing is, Clara, I’ve spoken to the local police station, but they say it’s not a matter for them. So, we’re all getting together tonight to see what can be done about it. Several heads better than one and all that.’
‘We’d really appreciate it if you could join us,’ said Daniel. ‘In ten minutes. At Clive Ventry’s house. The old manor.’