Martin left Jones to deal with the paperwork and headed down the corridor, pushing through the station entrance and stepping out into the transparent light of an afternoon before the rain comes, a sharp contrast to the studied quiet in which she had been contained for the previous few hours. Martin inhaled deeply and leaned against the metal railing of the station steps. Seagulls blared above her, those mysterious birds which constantly peppered the sky, although the sea was a good fifteen miles away eastwards. Time had been refracted since she’d been in that interview room. She felt outside of herself, looking down.
An elderly man stood in the doorway of the newsagent’s on the opposite side of the street. She caught his eye, and he considered her for a while before waving his hand gently by his leg and retreating back into the shop.
Martin closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of the smoke and the car fumes and the dust of the pavements. So that was it. Whatever was to happen in the coming days, even if she had to battle for the CPS to make the charge stick, she knew the truth, what had happened to Emily Brabents. Emily, a girl who swam with her chin just up above the water, struggling to breathe, trying to become something more in her life, but choosing the wrong way, a way that led her to stir up rage and jealousy in others. Martin pushed herself off the railings. She had been wrong about Emily. She was not a normal girl. She was instead, maybe a girl born too early.
Feeling strangely empty, Martin turned round and jogged up the steps back into the police station.
52
The last time Martin saw Simon Rush was at the reading of the verdict where he was found guilty of Emily Brabents’ murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. Martin had looked up at the gallery to see an ashen Michael Brabents sink his head thankfully into his hands, his son next to him. As she left the court to a typically cold and grey Durham afternoon, Martin wondered whether Emily was predestined for this all along, whether, when it came down to it, Michael Brabents, judging by his fetish for photographs of Emily, would have ultimately been able to control himself with his daughter.
And Principal Mason too, she considered idly. Would he hear of the downfall of Rush – the boy he had abused and manipulated – wherever he had fled to after Egan’s exposure of him a few months ago? He had been dismissed from the university under a cloud, that was true. But, Martin thought, was that enough of a punishment to stop him from preying on students again?
Martin stood at the top of the stone steps of the court building. She looked around, debating where to go to celebrate. Jim had moved back to Newcastle four months earlier. She knew it was for the best but she still missed him, missed his presence in the house.
As she switched on her mobile phone to check for messages, she felt someone come and stand next to her. ‘All right, Jones,’ she said with a grin. ‘I thought you were out ridding the Durham streets of crime.’
Jones nodded. ‘I was,’ she said. ‘But the streets will be fine for an hour or so. I thought we could have a drink and celebrate.’
Martin’s phone beeped. She looked down and saw a message asking her to come to dinner. She gave a small smile. Sam could wait.
‘Good for you, Jones.’ The women turned away from the court building. ‘Shall we cut through to The Oak down by the river?’ Martin breathed in the air of the encroaching winter as they walked. She liked this place, she decided. She looked up at the sky, the grey sky with a corner of blue in it, those interminable seagulls screeching around in it, and then over and across the river, at the cathedral, looming in perpetuity over the flurry of the weir.
Acknowledgements
My first thank you is to the beautiful City and University of Durham itself.
Then, to all my remarkable friends in Singapore who have spent (too) much of their time reading numerous drafts of the novel. In no particular order: Fran Rittman, Andrew Stott, Magali Finet, Matthew Schnetter, Marion Kleinschmidt, Sarah Salmon, Shola Asante and Christine Dawood.
Thank you to Christopher Wakling and Anna Davis for their excellent and invaluable advice and for all of their support in general.
To my incredible friends online and beyond for their insightful help and guidance on plot, names and much, much more. Particularly: Elin Daniels, Dawn Goodwin, Moyette Gibbons, Julietta Henderson, Alex Tyler, Jason Elliott, Rob Walsh, Heidi Perks and Catherine Bennetto.
Thank you to Neil Cramer, Melissa Nolan and Tim Wilson for giving up their valuable police time to read the novel and tell me exactly where I was going wrong. Any mistakes are, of course, my own doing.
To my spies in Durham for their help in reminding me of geography and place names: Jez Light, Sally Bell and Max Wurr.
I read a great deal of material before and during the writing of this book – non-fiction; blogs; and lots of newspaper articles. To the authors and academics who continue to inspire me with their incredible wisdom and philosophies: Ariel Levy (the origins of liquor in the book are directly inspired by the discussion of lickerish in Female Chauvinist Pigs), Naomi Wolf, Natasha Walter, Laura Bates, Caroline Criado-Perez, Hadley Freeman, Jessica Valenti and Nien Cheng.
Thank you to the wonderful Ariella Feiner at United Agents for believing in me, guiding me and having my back for the last couple of years. And for knowing where to buy awesome cinnamon buns.
Special thanks to Emad Akhtar, to whom I will be eternally grateful for loving the characters of Bitter Fruits as much as I do. I have been swept away on a tide of your enthusiasm and unstinting support and will be always thankful for your razor-sharp eyes and even sharper ideas.
To my parents, Avril and Malcolm, for their unending love and advice. And for reading the book more times than we can all care to remember. What a start in life you gave me. I hope this makes you proud.
Finally, to my heart outside itself – to Tom, Constance and India.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2015
Text copyright © Alice Clark-Platts, 2015
Cover photographs © Amy Buxton
The moral right of the author has been asserted
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-718-18097-3
Bitter Fruits: DI Erica Martin Page 30
