‘No. No I didn’t.’
‘Did you see anyone else? If you were up at five . . .’
‘Well, it may have been more like six this morning. Sometimes my alarm goes on the blink . . .’
‘Right. But when you came downstairs from your bedroom at the top of the house, you didn’t see anyone on the floors below? Is that right, Mrs Quinn? This is important.’
Eileen weighed it up. She wanted this whippersnapper to go. She could see the letter in her mind’s eye in the drawer in the kitchen sideboard. It seemed to glow from behind the wood, burning like hot coals. She hadn’t had a chance to move it – all these idiots snooping everywhere since the sun had been up. Whatever happened, it mustn’t be found. She made a decision based on what would get this policeman out of here in the quickest possible time.
‘I did see someone, yes.’
Fielding sat up. ‘Where, Mrs Quinn?’
‘On the corridor on the floor below me. I was just coming downstairs. I was in my slippers so I probably didn’t make much noise.’ Eileen rubbed her swollen toes absent-mindedly, thinking back to what she had seen.
‘That was this morning?’ Fielding asked urgently.
Eileen nodded. ‘It was a man. He was dressed in jeans and that, but – I just thought it was odd at the time . . .’
‘What was odd?’
‘I don’t know, something about him. He looked . . . odd.’ Eileen looked at Fielding. They said nothing.
‘And did you recognize the man?’ Fielding asked at last.
Eileen nodded again. She paused, her theatrical training lending her a moment of suspense. Fielding raised his eyebrows.
‘It was that manager. Mackenzie, I think his name is.’ Eileen sat back in her chair, turning her fat thumbs around and about each other. ‘Yes. Fraser Mackenzie. It was definitely him I saw.’
12
Martin put her head around the door of the incident room. ‘Jones. Coming with me to the press conference? I’ve got an hour before I have to be at the post-mortem with Walsh.’
Jones got to her feet. ‘Sure thing. By the way,’ she said, raising an envelope into the air. ‘This was dropped in at the front desk an hour ago.’
Martin frowned, coming into the room and taking the letter. She took some gloves from her pocket and put them on before ripping it open and scanning its contents, pursing her lips. ‘Hmm,’ she said at last.
‘What is it?’
‘Did you see who dropped this off?’
‘Nope. Was just handed in to the desk sergeant. We can check CCTV if you want.’
Martin glanced down again at the paper in her hands before holding it up for Jones to see. It was a black and white photocopy of a photograph. Judging by the double denim and permed hair, Jones guessed it had been taken sometime in or around the eighties. A man and a woman stood together in an embrace. He had his arms around her waist. The woman’s face was blurry and indistinct but she was looking up at him with such an expression of adoration that it made Jones smile. The couple were standing in front of a backlit theatre, on a grimy pavement. One of the woman’s legs was kicked up behind her. They looked on the cusp of something; they were celebrating.
‘Is that . . .?’ Jones asked.
Martin nodded. ‘Tristan Snow? Looks like it.’
‘But who’s that with him?’
‘It’s a good question,’ Martin said, taking back the photo and popping it into an evidence bag. ‘But a better question is why someone dropped this in here without leaving their name. And more to the point,’ Martin continued, turning to leave, ‘how is it relevant to Tristan Snow’s murder?’
‘This is going to be brief,’ Martin said to the gathered journalists. ‘But given that Reverend Snow is well known to the media and the public, we want to try and get across some accurate information.
‘The Reverend Tristan Snow was, this morning, found dead at the Riverview bed and breakfast, where he and his family had been staying for the past three nights.’
‘Circumstances of death, DI Martin? Murder, was it?’
That was Sean Egan. Martin threw him a bullet-shaped glance. He had form with Martin – having knowingly consorted with the murderer of a student a year or so back, purely in the interests of getting the truth across, of course. Martin had taken him down a peg or two then, to put it mildly. But he continued to bounce up again and again, an irritant made of India rubber.
As she heard him speak, though, something ticked in her brain, something just out of reach. What was it?
‘Obviously, we will not be revealing anything about the manner in which Reverend Snow died, at this early stage,’ Martin said patiently. No sweets for the Egan child. ‘We are still in the process of dealing with Reverend Snow’s relatives and focusing on establishing a formal cause of death.’
‘But you can say that it was in suspicious circumstances. Surely . . .’ Egan continued.
Martin cut him off. ‘We would ask that anyone who was in the vicinity of Riverview in the early hours of this morning come forward and identify themselves. But this is purely a formality to eliminate people from our enquiries.’ Martin stood up. ‘If there’s nothing else . . .’
‘And the ceremony celebrating Tristan’s life . . .’ Egan persisted. ‘They’re calling it a vigil. Will that be taking place?’
‘We are not aware of any official plans for a vigil, Mr Egan. If any of Tristan Snow’s supporters wish to express their grief, they will of course be welcome. We would emphasize, however, that this should be done in an orderly and lawful fashion.’
Martin smiled briefly at the room before walking briskly out. ‘Thank you, all.’
‘Ultimate cause of death was a massive haemorrhage due to shards of parietal bone entering the brain. As you will have noted at the scene and during the PM, the skull was shattered by a forceful blow of an instrument of some kind. Something with a sharpened edge would have made it easier, I suspect.’ Dr Brian Walsh passed a file over his desk to where Martin and Jones sat, opposite. ‘Have you found the murder weapon yet?’
‘No,’ Martin acknowledged. ‘We’re looking, though. Partridge and the SOCOs are still at the boarding house.’ She bit her lip. ‘Time of death?’
Walsh raised his famously thick eyebrows and took a swig from a mug of tea. He was a small man with greying fair hair and glacial green eyes. Behind his head a skeletal diagram dangled eerily from the wall. Martin hated Walsh’s office. It was overheated and stuffy, and the shelves that ran along the top of the room were filled with murky jars containing unidentifiable liquids and objects. Martin was convinced these were body parts, extracted under duress.
‘Hard to be entirely precise. The window was open a little as you know, which made the room cold. There was a fair amount of fluid – saliva and vomit – which had come from the victim’s mouth on to the carpet. I’d suggest this meant he was alive for a while before he lost consciousness.’ Walsh pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. ‘You’ll see in my report that rigor had only just begun. I’d say anywhere from around 3 a.m. until he was found.’
‘Fairly big time window,’ Martin said.
‘Sorry about that. But that’s the truth of it.’
The words seemed to spin and float into the air in front of Martin. The truth of it. What was it that had fluttered into her head at the press conference? What was it that was bothering her?
‘Martin?’ Walsh was saying. ‘Did you hear me?’
Martin focused on the room, shaking her head a little. ‘Sorry. What did you say?’
‘I was saying that I had one of my team have a look at the pigeon you sent in with the body,’ Walsh’s tone was neutral, but his gaze was filled with disappointment, as if Martin had been sent to him for school detention. ‘A pigeon,’ he went on, giving a slight shake of his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve been sent one of those before.’
‘And?’ Martin said, ignoring the reproach. ‘Anything of interest?’
‘Well, that would depend on your
perspective, wouldn’t it?’ Walsh answered, his head on one side. ‘But putting aside any anthropomorphism, the cause of the bird’s death was, in my humble opinion – as a mere pathologist, you understand, and not as a veterinary surgeon – due to a broken neck.’
‘Anthropo . . . what?’ Jones put in.
‘Presumably the pigeon couldn’t fly with a broken neck, so it was either killed inside the room or was brought into the room already dead?’ Martin asked.
‘Indeed,’ Walsh said, directed to Martin. ‘The attribution of human characteristics to animals,’ he said to Jones, his eyes twinkling a little. ‘Another thing,’ he said, leaning forward across his desk and picking up a piece of paper. ‘We also ran a toxicology scan. Standard in a homicide, as you know.’
Martin inclined her head. ‘Did it reveal anything?’
‘Snow had extremely high levels of solanine present in his bloodstream.’
‘Solanine?’
Walsh made a wry face. ‘Commonly known as deadly nightshade. It’s found in green potato tubers.’
Martin sat forward. ‘What?’
Walsh shrugged. ‘There it is. Eat too many green potato sprouts and you’ll get sick.’
‘Can it cause death?’ Jones asked.
‘Enough of it can. Snow had approximately 165 milligrams in his system; that’s sufficient to cause toxicity. If he’d carried on ingesting it at that rate, eventually it would’ve been fatal.’
‘Ingesting it?’ Martin said. ‘What are you saying? His wife wasn’t cooking his chips properly?’
Walsh allowed a quick smile. ‘Dissolve the potato sprouts. Filter and solidify them, turn them into a powder. Put it into his Horlicks. Enough of it, he’d suffer nausea, gastroenteritis, hallucinations. Finally, his lungs would have shut down.’
The room was silent.
‘Obviously his death was caused by the haemorrhage in his brain,’ the pathologist said.
‘But that just sealed the deal,’ Jones said quietly. ‘Because unless he was on a gastro adventure of his own . . .’
‘Someone had already been trying to poison him.’ Martin finished for her.
THE DURHAM CHRONICLE ONLINE
MONDAY 8 AUGUST, 2016
TRISTAN SNOW: TV MIRACLE MAKER FOUND DEAD
Reverend Tristan Snow MBE has been found dead in the city of Durham while on his sell-out MIRACLES tour across the British Isles. The Reverend was 69 years old.
The former presenter, most famous for his appearances as resident psychic and self-dubbed ‘miracle maker’ on This Morning and Good Morning Britain, has been found dead at a local bed and breakfast in the city of Durham.
Police are treating his death as suspicious, although no further information regarding the circumstances has been released at this time.
Tonight, tributes to the veteran presenter came in from the world of showbusiness, with tweets illustrating the high regard in which Reverend Snow was held. Radio presenter Jed Hamilton said that Reverend Snow, who was given the MBE in 2012 for his services to charity, worked ‘tirelessly’ to raise funds for various causes, including caring for the abandoned children he often took in at the Deucalion Church in Blackpool where he was Reverend. ‘He was a very animated character,’ Mr Hamilton told the BBC. ‘But most of all, I remember him as just a powerful presence, a larger than life character. As he was in front of his followers, so he was offstage.’
The Reverend was often dubbed ‘. . . a proper British eccentric’ and a close friend of his has been quoted as saying he was ‘a man so unique a character, so extraordinary a personality that you could not have made him up’.
A close friend added that Snow ‘didn’t know his parents and so the charity work he did became his family. It wasn’t just for the publicity. He was capable of acts of great kindness. You didn’t really ever get to know “the man” because he was a showman . . . and like so many showmen, that’s their main thing in life and he did it exceptionally.’
The Deucalion Church made a statement this morning, saying: ‘It is with deep sadness that we can announce that our brother and friend Tristan Snow MBE was found deceased this morning. Everyone who knew Tristan is in shock and we are doing everything we can to assist police with their enquiries. While we thank the people who have offered their condolences, for the moment, we would ask that our privacy be respected.’
A memorial and book of condolence to Reverend Snow has been set up in the foyer of the Palace Theatre in Blackpool.
Snow leaves behind a wife, Seraphina (60) and a daughter Violet (18).
Did you know Tristan Snow? Do have any information concerning his death? Get in touch with your stories to Sean Egan via email at [email protected] or @seganjourno on Twitter.
13
‘So Mackenzie takes fifteen per cent of Snow’s earnings?’ Jones asked, back from the pathologist, as she picked at a box of sushi on the desk.
‘Yep,’ Tennant answered, his burger stinking out the room from on top of his desk. ‘Fifteen per cent of everything. Tours, DVDs, books, personal appearances.’ He looked over at her lunch with a shudder. ‘I don’t know how you can eat that crap.’
Jones ignored him. ‘Must be doing quite well, then. Not much of an incentive for murder, is it? Like killing the Golden Goose.’
‘Except it’s not so much golden as wasting away and the carcass about to be put into the soup.’ Tennant popped a can of Coke and took a slurp. ‘Snow and Mackenzie formed a company about ten years ago. They’re both registered as directors.’ He sniffed. ‘But the company’s in the shit. Hence them all staying at that crappy B&B. Hence Mackenzie’s stress levels at getting tickets sold for the gig.’
‘Why’s it in the shit, though? They have actually flogged tickets. The conference centre was practically sold out.’
‘Well, I’m no forensic accountant,’ Tennant said, leaning back in his chair.
Jones raised an eyebrow.
‘But my thought is Fraser Mackenzie had his hand in the till.’ Tennant tapped the papers on his desk. ‘So to speak. He set up a partnership in the Cayman Islands just over two years ago with an entertainment company. They would invest money in creative enterprises,’ he said, making the sign for inverted commas, before taking a large bite of his burger. Jones wrinkled her nose as grease dripped down his chin. ‘But Snow wasn’t involved in that,’ Tennant continued, through his chomping, eventually wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘Profits are all registered to yet another company. And who’s the registered director of that?’
‘Fraser Mackenzie,’ Jones said.
Tennant nodded. ‘Correct.’
Fielding put his head around the door. ‘DS Jones? Wondered if I could have a word?’
‘What is it? Come on in, don’t be shy.’
He walked into the room nervously, biting his lip.
‘What is it, Eddie?’ Jones asked, kindly; Tennant rolled his eyes as she moved to face Fielding. ‘How did the interview go with Eileen Quinn?’
‘She’s a funny old bat,’ Fielding answered.
‘Yep, seems that way,’ Jones said, turning back to tap on her keyboard. ‘And?’
‘Thing is, she was asleep all night, so she says. So no alibi there . . .’
‘What’s new . . .?’ Jones said, almost to herself.
‘But, well, she says that she was up early on the morning of the murder. That she saw something . . .’
Jones stopped typing and again turned to face Fielding. ‘What did she see?’
‘Fraser Mackenzie, the manager. Says she saw him walking down the corridor. She said he looked . . .’ Fielding’s Adam’s apple bobbed with excitement. ‘You know, odd.’
Jones sat back in her seat and flipped a glance at Tennant, tapping a chewed-up biro against her mouth.
Tennant shook his head with a tut. ‘Old bint says Colonel Mustard looked odd on his way to the loo. Hang on a sec, I might tell them to hold the front page,’ he muttered, before turning his back pointedly on Fielding. ‘Nice try,
Junior.’
‘What time was this?’ Jones asked, scowling at Tennant.
‘She wasn’t sure. Around 6 a.m. I’d say. She claims to be up from five, but if she’s anything like my nan, she’ll be slow getting her slippers on. In any case, five or six, it’s still . . .’ he looked down at his notes. ‘What came over the radio, from the pathologist?’
‘Yep,’ Jones concurred. ‘It’s within the time frame for the murder.’
Martin parked her car outside the Travelodge for the second time that day. She looked at the glass edifice through the driver’s window, considering what she would say when she entered. The day was once again muggy, insipid steam rising from the pavements after the downpour of the storm. The car interior was silent; she had nudged the radio off to think as she drove. People wandered around inside the hotel, lounging at the reception, walking past the vases of plastic flowers decorating the lobby. They were lilies, Martin noticed. Flowers of death.
Thoughts smudged and smeared in her brain, popping up randomly, uncharacteristically erratic. She breathed, envying her imagined simplicity of the lives of the people in the hotel reception; a ridiculous notion, she conceded. They were probably all as messed up as she was. And having to stay in a Travelodge. Her stomach growled and the image floated into her mind, idly, of fish and chips with lots of vinegar. With ketchup. Martin rubbed her hand over her face and sighed. She looked at herself in the rear-view mirror, thought about putting on some lipstick before dismissing the idea and opening the car door to jog across the street.
Sera Snow was already sitting in the little hotel bar adjacent to the lobby when Martin walked in. She could see Sera’s petite figure, her grey head bent to the table. She appeared to have her eyes closed which she opened as Martin sat down opposite her.
Martin ordered a sparkling water for herself and an orange juice for Sera. Then she slid the copy of the photograph over the table.
‘Who is this, Sera?’
Sera pulled the photograph to her, past the glass that a waitress had put in front of her. She bent her head to look closer and then briefly shut her eyes.
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 6
